Aftershocks
by metawohoo
Summary: The dust settles after Oswald's takeover, and things are not fine. Maroni's family is standing firm. Fish can't be found. Barbara is insane. And, on top of that, Jim and Harvey's new case might be darker than it appears.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: this will be very dark, with graphic violence, mental illness, torture, murder, mentions of rape, the works.

* * *

Napoleon had been a man of great wisdom and wit. His words had lived through the ages, to enlighten the common men on topics such as leadership, war, and _torture._ In a letter to Louis Alexandre Berthier, in 1798, he had shared quite scathing views on the practice.

 _«The barbarous custom of having men beaten who are suspected of having important secrets to reveal must be abolished. It has always been recognized that this way of interrogating men, by putting them to torture, produces nothing worthwhile. The poor wretches say anything that comes into their mind and what they think the interrogator wishes to know.»_

Oswald rather thought Napoleon had missed the point.

You scarcely needed to resort to violence to uncover secrets. Information would flow easily enough, provided you used the adequate currency. Most often than not, that currency was _promises._ At other times, it was guile. Then came favors and money. When all of that failed, when you were adamant that you could not extract a word from your target, you had _torture_. Torture was not about interrogation. It was not about pushing men to confess and betray every confidence. It was about _punishment_. It was about revenge.

If you were so inclined - like Victor - it was about _pleasure._

«When will he be ready?» Oswald asked, circling the 'operating' table, and looking down at Gilzean's quivering, naked form.

The man was sobbing, a high-pitched, continuous sound coming out of his throat between every gasp, despite his gag. The smell of urine was unbearable, even though Zsasz had washed him every time he had soiled himself, lifting him in the air by the arms with the pulley and chains hanging from the ceiling, then hosing him down. The hitman kept his basement meticulously clean. He would only allow infection and gangrene to take hold when he fancied it.

If one had to be honest, there was not a trace of dejections around. The tiles were spotless, both on the walls and on the floor. The operating table was immaculate - save for the blood - and even the drain appeared clean. The stench of fresh urine had just burned itself deep into Oswald's nostrils, just as the smell of fear.

Zsasz leaned closer to Butch's chest, cutting a neat, one inch long square into the man's skin. He pushed the blade of his scalpel under it and slowly lifted the skin, stripping it away. Gilzean wailed and trashed, and dissolved into near convulsions a minute later, when Victor poured disinfectant over his exposed flesh. The square of removed skin joined six others into an aluminum tray.

«He will be ready when I say so», Victor replied. «It is your fault, this. You _spoiled_ him.»

He clicked his tongue and went for his scalpel again.

Oswald had to admit the results of his work were satisfying to watch, even if the monster could not be trusted to properly break a mind. Gilzean's skin was a patchwork of old scars, burns and cuts mixed together, long healed. The _fresh_ wounds were a pleasure to look at, red, bloody, and entirely deserved. Oswald's gunshot wound had been cleaned and sutured the previous evening. The the pain was minimal, really - the nerves in his leg too damaged to properly register the extend of the wound - but the betrayal still required _retribution_. _«I'm so sorry»_ , the traitor had told Fish. _«I would never hurt you, I love you»_. It was good, oh, hilarious, _wonderful_ that the slimy bag of grease had seen the _bitch_ fall to her death. The look of utter despair on his face after that had nearly been punishment enough. _Nearly_.

Oswald was still tremendously enjoying this visit to Zsasz. He loved watching him work: he needed the release. Fish Mooney's body had yet to be found, and her lover's pain made for good distraction.

It was also very good to have currency to enlist the freak.

«I want him _perfect_ this time. I refuse to be forced to watch my back constantly because you settle for a subpar job.»

«Shouldn't you be elsewhere, attending to… 'your' city?» Victor asked.

The creature was not capable of sarcasm, but Oswald still felt himself flush.

«The situation is being managed», he replied. «I have men out there, taking control of the strategic building. Falcone's mansion is _mine_. The club is mine. The theater district is mine. Maroni's territory is being divided as we speak.»

Zsasz smiled, a childish, half-swallowed grimace of lunacy.

«I heard of fighting in the streets.»

«It will quiet. On _that_ note. I will require your services, shortly. A show of force will be necessary.»

«I do not work for you», the hitman answered, pursing his lips when Oswald's eyes pointedly turned to Butch. « _He_ is. Myyy. Toy.»

«We should still discuss the matter of your employ. Falcone retired. Maroni is dead. And _I_ offer you first dibs on any contract I might have. Trust me, there will be many of those.»

Zsasz moved away from Gilzean's quivering body, placing another square of skin into the tray.

«You cannot _pay_ me. You will not even be. Alive. By the end of the day.»

«Oh, my friend, my good friend, you are so terribly mistaken. I believe I can trust you with my life, as long as I provide you with a suitable payment for your services.»

«I don't want your money», the monster replied, reaching for his bottle of disinfectant. «Don Falcone and I… We had an _arrangement_.»

He poured the liquid on Gilzean's chest. Oswald waited for his wails to subside.

«And we can have our own. I have many enemies, and _very_ little concern about the time it might take you to dispose of them… As long as they _disappear_ the instant I require them to.»

Victor started and turned to him, swallowing hard.

The easiest currency was _promises_. And sometimes, _sometimes_ , torture could be too, in more ways than one.

###

«We'll be safe here», Cat told Ivy as they settled inside the attic of an empty house in Tricorner.

The owners were on a trip, which she had discovered while she dragged Ivy across town, when a neighbor had walked in to feed the cats. The two girls had waited around until dark, then Selina had broken into the place through the second floor window.

The place _would_ be safe enough. For a while.

It was all a disaster. Fish was _dead_. _Fish_. She had never been supposed to _die_. She was strong, the strongest around. She understood the streets, she understood what had to be done to survive, and she took care of her own. She had gathered the misfits, the weak, the outcasts, and given them shelter. To those who needed protection, like Ivy, she had given protection. To the strongest, she had given weapons. Cat wasn't one to be easily swayed by figures of authority, but she had seen what Fish Mooney offered, in a city at war. More than that, she had talked to the woman. She had tested the waters, looked for the _lies_ that always came with promises of food and power. And Fish had _known_ what it meant to be alone in the streets, to fight tooth and nail for survival in a world that did not give a _shit_ about you.

Cat had a kid to worry about, red haired and grumpy and always sick as she was, and what Fish Mooney had offered had not been just a gig and a roof. It was obvious the woman cared, though she was not about to let feelings affect her resolve.

«I've dragged myself up from where you are, girl», she had told Selina. «All the way to the top. And I will do it again. This town will be ours. There will be change.»

She had meant every word of it. She could have done it, too. She had taken _Maroni_ out. She had Falcone in the palm of her hand.

Jim Gordon, too. _That_ had been satisfying. Jim _asshole_ Gordon, who had gone and made silly faces to try to get her to free him. As if he _deserved_ it. Cat had been there to see Barbara come back from the hospital after the Ogre's death. After Jim had not only been too late to save her, but had not even thought of _warning_ her. _One_ phone call, _one_ word, and Selina would have made sure Barb' was safe and out of reach, but had Soldier boy even _thought_ of her? Of course not. That was just like Gordon, letting the monsters get to you, like those assassins at Wayne Manor. And he didn't even see what he did. He thought he was _such_ a hotshot cop, all 'Protect and Serve'. The truth was, he didn't know the meaning of the word 'protection'. He did not protect, he waged wars. He didn't serve, he did as he pleased. And he didn't even apologize when he destroyed people. He did not notice at all. When he came to check on Barbara after she had returned home, it had been out of _duty_ and nothing else, and he had barely stayed five minutes.

If Fish had killed him, it would have served him right. Shown him how it felt to have no one coming for you.

The apartment thing had been sweet. It was a good place, and Barbara was nice enough. Sure, she had not been _easy_ , and she drank too much, and she could get into piss poor moods and all. But she loved them, even Ivy, who was a bit of a cross between a cactus and a bitch. She made sure they were fed and that Ivy's hair was brushed and soft. She worried when they didn't return for a few days. She had whined a lot, and done drunk, and seethed at everything and nothing, but she had been a _person_. What had come back from the hospital had been… Something else. Composed, and nice, and proper, and sober, and just plain _wrong_. Cat had noticed it at once, that weird malevolence, that creepiness she sometimes felt around Ivy. But with Barbara, it had been a thousand times worse, and talking to her had brought Selina no comfort.

The girl had been direct with her questions. There was no point circling around the issues. She came from the streets. She was not stupid.

«No, no, Jason did not rape me», Barbara had replied without even noticing she had used the killer's first name.

The pimps who picked runaway girls in the streets didn't 'rape' them either. Just seduced them and called it making love. But Barbara had kept denying, though she admitted being tortured when Selina pushed, so the girl had crossed her fingers and hoped for that sick freak to have kept his hands to himself, unlike his tools and his blades.

Anyway, Barb' as the girls knew her was gone, and what had replaced her could not be trusted, so Cat had dragged Ivy away. She had just met Fish. At least, they had somewhere to go.

But now, not only was Fish dead, that Penguin guy had seen Cat's face, and he would not forget her. Everyone Fish had recruited was gone - out of town if they were wise - but the crazy bastard had probably not memorized their faces. Selina had felt him watching her, filing every detail of her face for later use. That sniveling bastard had spent the night limping around on that messed up leg of his, telling everyone he was the «king of Gotham».

Gotham had not gotten the memo. Every mobster Falcone had kept under his thumb was fighting for territory. Maroni's family was doing much better. It remained organized, much to everyone's surprise, despite the death of the Don. Cobblepot was going to be king of the bottom of Gotham River by the end of the week if he kept repeating he had a claim on the city. Until he was dead, though, things were a disaster. And Falcone had seen her face, too, even if he planned to 'retire'. Plenty of Maroni's men had. She would have to lay low for a while and keep Ivy out of trouble.

###

Jim hung up and stared at his desk, ignoring the noises of the bullpen, the ringing of the phones, the voices, the constant shuffling of papers, every other small, familiar noise.

Coming back to the precinct had been… Well, his relationship with Boel had hit rock bottom before the confrontation at the hospital, and the commissioner was probably busy figuring out whose side to pick, seeing how there were no more sides to side with. Boel and the Mafia were at the back of his mind for a moment, though, as another matter had kept him on the phone for twenty minutes and was now battling for control of his thoughts.

«Barbara just arrived in Arkham», he announced to Harvey, who grunted and didn't answer. «They'll be… Well, she has her cell, she'll see a psychiatrist in a few hours.»

There had been no other options, really. She had _killed_ her parents. Sure, it had not been her fault, she was damaged and broken, but her thoughts had been clear enough to fake sanity for two weeks and then go after Leslie. Criminally insane. Barbara, of all people. She had her issues with substance abuse, and she could be bitter at times, but evil had never been part of her. Not until the Ogre had captured her. Not until he had… Well, she had not been his first victim, and the bastard's torture room left little to the imagination. Jim suspected. Barbara had refused to talk about it with him. She had told Lee, but Lee would not repeat what she had heard. Confidential. Doctor-patient privilege, even if that «therapy» had been a ploy for Barbara to attempt murder.

Jim felt sick.

«Do you think she can heal?» he asked, even though Harvey was not paying attention.

His friend was listening to the news on radio, one earphone in, and looking at his phone.

«Jim, for fuck's sake, I'm busy here. Go ask someone who _cares_.»

The blond clenched his jaw and nodded, and struggled with his thoughts for a while. The noises around him grew louder, just as his inner voice grew more pressing.

«I should have found her sooner», he said. «If I'd done a better job-»

Harvey slammed his fist on his desk, turned the radio off, grabbed his cloak and left without a word, leaving Gordon bewildered.

«What have I done _now_?» he asked to the empty space in front of him.

Then he shook his head, grabbed the radio, and listened to the reports of arsons and shootings. Ten minutes in, someone tapped his shoulder. He turned to a punch to the face.

«YOU FUCKING BRAINLESS ASSHOLE», the woman screamed, as he pressed a hand to his face.

Blood was streaming from his nose, and he had to take a second to recognize the latina standing in front of him.

«Montoya?»

«I just got a call from a journalist friend who worked on the Ogre story and who told me Barbara was sent to _Arkham_. Three months undercover and my first contact from outside is to tell me she's killed her parents and went _insane_.»

«She… It just came to light, she…», he murmured back, aware that everyone around had turned to them and was listening in.

 _«You son of a bitch.»_

«I swear I did everything I could to find her, I-»

 _«FIND HER? FIND HER?_ How did he get to her to begin with? You _KNEW_ who you were going after, what was she doing in Gotham? Why didn't you get her out of _town_ before you went on TV to taunt the bastard?»

Jim blanched, and Montoya took one look at his face and saw very clearly what had happened. He had not thought of Barbara back then. Not at all. Not for a _second_. Not until Jason Lennon had already lured her away from that charity ball. Guilt sank in, and he saw Renee's expression slide from rage to absolute fury. He braced for another blow.

She spat in his face and stalked away.

###


	2. Chapter 2

babycat : thanks for your review! I don't know what I'll do with Bruce yet but I'm thinking about it!

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Little girls dreamed of white picket fence houses and white wedding dresses, and of something old, of something new, of something borrowed, of something blue. They waited for the day their prince would come, to smother them in kisses so tender their hearts would break. When they found the One, they wrapped themselves in promises of love, and soft whispers, as one would with a warm blanket in the unbearable coldness of a winter night. They reveled in their ever after, covered it all up with lies until it looked like happiness.

Little girls were made of sugar and spice and everything nice, but 'nice' did not belong in the real world. Sugar would make you ill with syrupy sweetness, and _spice_? Oh, no, one could not have any 'spice'. Good girls smiled and nodded and did not raise their voices. Good girls waited for their turn to speak. Good girls did not kiss girls, and did not like to. If you had _spice_ , it had to be crushed out of you with scathing looks and terse comments. And God forbid the world could see a trace of snips, or snails, or puppy dog tails under your mask.

Good girls did not wear masks, actually. If you had to, there was something _very_ wrong with you.

 _Or so they said._

«No», Barbara told the psychiatrist that had been sent to assess her state of mind. «You willfully misinterpret my words. I did not hate my parents. Was I angry at them? Yes. Did they deserve to die? Yes. But I loved them. All my life, all I _ever_ did was to try to live up to their expectations and hope they would return my feelings.»

Leslie Thompkins had had a little more fight in her than what one could expect from that condescending little miss Perfect, so Barbara was not safely watching the news of her grisly death on television, from a motel three states away. Which was disappointing. Then again, there would be other opportunities. James did not have the best track record at protecting his loved ones, and Leslie was such a bleeding heart she would fall for the stupidest tricks in the book. The victim card was _so_ easy to play on someone who _wanted_ to see you as a broken doll. She would die, in time. That being said, her surviving meant she had tattled about that murder confession, which resulted in Barbara having to reside in Arkham for the foreseeable future.

She would play along for a few weeks, until she figured out which guard was the most in need of a fifty thousand dollars donation.

«Did Jason Lennon suggest your parents deserved to die?» the psychiatrist asked, taking notes.

 _No. No. He agreed, but the suggestion was mine, from the bottom of my soul._

«I-I… Don't _recall_. T-that evening, I w-was so out of it. It h-had been a long d-day, and I was d-drugged. It's all in my file, isn't it?»

She was grateful for the drugs.

 _«Barbara, we're doing this for you»_ , Jason had said, getting his blade out. And he had grabbed her mother, cut a deep gash into her cheek, and invited Barbara to join him. _«This is something you have to do for yourself. Only_ you _can define who you are.»_

She had stumbled to him, the world hazier than her thoughts.

She was grateful for the drugs. Without them, she couldn't have brought herself to take the knife and to follow Jason's instructions. She would not have freed herself from the masks, and the shame, and the utter _misery_. She would have kept waking every day to drink herself to sleep. She would have drowned in that sense of isolation and worthlessness when, in fact, she did not need anyone, and she could not _fathom_ why rejection had ever hurt her. She did not even need _Jason_. She missed him like her heart torn away, but she didn't _need_ him. She was more complete than she had ever been. She was stronger. She knew no fear.

«It is», the doctor replied. She was a fat, old lady with a closed up face and thin glasses. She worked in Arkham, so she could not be very competent. «I would like to hear the story from you all the same.»

«As I said, I don't remember _anything_ after he gave me that 'water'. I passed out.»

 _And then he woke me and asked me who to kill._

 _And I did._

 _And he loved me for that._

«When did you wake?»

«A few h-hours later. He said we were going for a road trip.»

He had given her a simple, elegant white dress so she could change from her ball gown. They had showered. She had done her hair as he kissed her shoulder and told her about freedom and revenge, and she had swayed in his arms, swallowing the pills he gave her. _Then_ they had driven to her parents.

«It's so blurry, all of it. I remember wiping my hands on my dress… Telling my mother about being her little 'piggy'. I remember James coming in… I'm…»

She started sobbing and let the tears flow. _This is all so traumatic, wah, wah, wah._ The psychiatrist waited for her to regain her composure. Someone knocked at the door. The therapist went to open it, the sole of her cheap moccasins shuffling on the yellowish tiles. One of the guards was waiting in the corridor.

«There's a detective to see Kean», she announced. «Gordon, remember him? Worked in the male wing.»

Barbara bit back a grin. Jim, Jim, Jim. Had he decided to reopen the Ogre case? She saw no other reason for him to visit. Maybe his simpering idiot of a girlfriend had sent him to check on her. Out of pity. It was her style.

She let herself be led away, to a creepy little room with yellowish walls and yellowish lights and yellowish windows obstructed by iron bars and years of dirt. Jim was standing in a corner, uneasy, and grimaced when he saw her. His face. He thought he could lie. He thought he could fake warmth and affection. He thought he could do a great many things, the poor, poor man. He had so much to learn.

She smiled and put on her most innocent face.

«Jim! I'm so glad to see you.»

Watching his discomfort was about as hilarious as getting Thompkins to squirm in horror with tales of Jason's games.

«I. You… We need to talk. I want to help you», he said, gesturing to the guard to leave them alone, and moving closer to Barbara. «Anything I can do, I will.»

 _When I needed help, James, all you ever gave me was absence. But it's kind of you to offer some now that I'm just fine._

His face was ever so slightly bruised.

«Who sent you?» she said.

If it wasn't about a case, then he had been prompted.

«No one. Barb'… Let's sit?» he suggested, walking to a set of unmatched chairs.

She took one, and he turned his own to face hers.

«First things first, I want you to know I contacted the best therapist in town. Highly recommended, he specializes in trauma counseling and recovery. I want you to talk to him. I want you to _please, please_ let someone help you.»

Barbara pursed her lips and did not comment.

«Please», he insisted.

She promptly resumed her innocent victim act and nodded.

«Anything, if you think it's necessary», she promised. «Was it Leslie?»

«What?»

«The person who sent you.»

«No one sent me.»

She chuckled. She couldn't help it. No one was as bad a liar as Jim Gordon, and she _knew_ him in and out. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Just like when he had tried to hide he was dating Leslie, when it was plain on both their faces. He tensed and moved away.

«You don't have to force yourself to come see me, you know?» she said. «I left you a long time ago. You don't have to worry about me. I'm just _fine_.»

«Of course I will worry about you. You're important to me.»

 _That's a new one._

«And I failed you», he finished. «It's my fault you were hurt.»

 _Renee!_ It had to be Renee. That would explain both Jim's bruise and his sudden realization that his actions sometimes had consequences.

He had not even come up with that on his own. Barbara decided to punish him with sweetness and truth. Sugar and spice and everything nice.

«Don't blame yourself», she told him in a cheerful, happy voice. «I'm glad. I'm so very glad. If you had not made that little, insignificant mistake, I would never have met Jason. I would never have been _loved._ I owe you so much, even if it was all unintentional.»

His face at that was _priceless_. The perfect mixture of pain and shame and disbelief, all of it wrapped in horror. She didn't think she had ever seen him so low. She gave him her kindest smile.

He had so much to learn.

###

«What part of 'whoever holds the bridges holds the town' do you fail to understand, Hugo?», Giulia snapped into her phone. «Gotham is an _island_. I do not care how many labs you lose today, nor how many warehouses. The cocaine you save will do you no good when the family finds itself cut from all other resources. Now off to the North Bridge, your men are to join Cipriani's and defend the block. Are we clear?»

Hugo tried to protest again - _«I just thought-»_ \- but a scathing 'now' was all it took to get him to obey. That compliance made him much more tolerable than the pack of wolves Giulia had spent the day cajoling and threatening into defending the _family_ instead of their asses. Salvatore had not be dead a day, and all of those imbeciles were going after each other, or Falcone's lieutenant, or whatever struck their fancy. All of that because Giulia's husband had felt the urge to taunt the craziest woman in town. At no point had he considered that _maybe_ someone who had the gall to try to take Don Falcone out would not lose any sleep over executing him. That was so very 'Sal'.

His lieutenants were not much smarter. "But my territory is more important than _that_ territory". Whining and quibbling like children. Giulia had seven years old twin boys who were not nearly as puerile.

She had managed to obtain some semblance of order. They had been at war with Falcone for days, and the family had taken some serious losses even before Salvatore's death. That left Giulia little to work with, and the men who remained had tried their best to scatter to the wind. She had reined in enough of them to gain control of the Adams Port, which was good, but they needed at least two bridges. She remembered being a young bride, barely twenty, sitting in the restaurant and listening to Big Lou tear Sal 'a new one' about sacrificing the Kane Memorial Bridge in some feud against the Russians.

«We traffic weapons», Luigi had told his son. «We traffic drugs! Do you think they grow on trees, coglione? Falcone will always find whores to fill his pockets, there's no shortage of foolish sluts in Gotham. Goods, however, do not make themselves. How do you think we will fare if the Russians get first dibs on every truck we try to get in?»

Salvatore had gone and taken that bridge back. Nearly died in the process, too, which his father had called a 'suitable lesson'. Giulia had not forgotten. Never cut your own supply lines.

She was the daughter of Luigi Maroni's left hand. She had been Salvatore's wife. She was the mother to his heirs. She knew how to take care of the family.

She looked down at the bodies around her: the overreaching lieutenant who had used her boys as hostages (after Sal had entrusted him with their care), his own sons, and his men. The henchmen had been gunned down as soon as her team had entered the mansion, but Franco and his sons? It had been personal, so she had let her men tie them up. Then it had been a bullet in the head for each of the sons, by her hand, as their father watched. Was the death of the young men a tragedy? Of course. But insubordination could not go unpunished. Giulia had to make sure no one would go after her children again. Letting Franco's wife and young daughter survive had been enough of a mercy.

She turned to the two hitmen she had brought with her.

«I want his head delivered to Vasily», she told them, naming the _other_ rogue lieutenant. «Cristiano, if you would be so kind?»

The blond nodded and went to fetch his tools. His colleague, Nino, moved closer to Giulia. She walked to the door.

«Let's retrieve the boys and leave. I want them out of town by the-»

Her phone rang. She picked up, only to be greeted by a polite, composed voice.

«Giulia. I hope I am not disturbing you. I've been made aware that your family is not falling to pieces. I assume you have a hand in that?»

 _«Carmine?»_

«Himself.»

«Where the hell are you and what are you _playing at_?»

She had been told he had _retired_. All of her trusted informants agreed on that, as well as some of Fish Mooney's hirelings, the ones that had been captured after the events of the previous night and had witnessed the whole disaster. The notion of Carmine Falcone _actually_ relinquishing his hold on the city was ridiculous. Maybe he was injured and too weak to handle the ongoing war. Maybe he had a temporary lapse of faith. But Gotham was as good as part of his soul. He could never keep away.

Giulia had been stunned to see him let his family dissolve. Oswald Cobblepot, self-proclaimed «king of Gotham», had attempted to take over, but he was about as skilled at managing the politics as he was at managing Fish Mooney's club. He seemed to believe that, by virtue of having killed the woman who had killed Salvatore, he had acquired some special status. In Giulia's opinion, the man lived in a fantasy world. Real life was not 'Harry Potter'. There was no power transference when you happened to defeat someone, the 'wands' did not magically change owners.

«I'm not playing, Giulia. I'm done with this life. I think it is time for the established order to be shaken up a little. And, quite frankly, it has been a long week.»

«Well, you should have thought of that before sending a hitman after my husband, quite frankly.»

«Ah. The thing is, I never did. I did, however, receive a head in a box, courtesy of Salvatore. My condolences, by the way. He was a good friend, I was sad to see him go.»

«If you didn't call that hit, who did?»

«You're a smart woman. I'm sure you can guess.»

Giulia didn't have to give it a lot of thought.

«Cobblepot?»

«He paid me a visit to confess and gloat. A very informative few minutes that would have been better employed stabbing me, but you know how it goes. Hubris is quite a glaring weakness.»

«I'm _shocked_. A double-crosser, triple-crossing, who could have seen it coming?»

«No need for sarcasm. I'm an old man, Giulia. My wit is not what it used to be. Which is why I'm very glad to discover you have stepped forward. You're a good woman. Always had your priorities straight. I believe you can do the city a lot of good.»

«I assume this call had a goal other than letting me know about Cobblepot's being a repeat turncoat?»

«Yes. I have a favor to ask of you.»

She frowned.

«Do you, now?»

«I had to leave the city in a hurry. I left a few loose ends, but one of them will keep me up at night. I would be ever so thankful if you could take care of that matter for me.»

«That matter being?»

«Zsasz. I had an arrangement with Zsasz. And since I'm not here to uphold it and keep him leashed… He needs to be dealt with, Giulia. He does not have the strength to control himself. He'll soon become a rabid dog. He needs to be put down before he starts hunting his own prey.»

###

«Where is Jim?» Sarah asked, joining Bullock at his desk. «I have a case for the two of you.»

The man was doing crosswords, though she suspected he was just passing time as he waited for a phone call. His phone was charging next to him, and had been all day.

«Arkham, I reckon», he replied. «Had to check on his psycho ex-girlfriend or something. And are you _kidding me_? The city's at war and there's dumbasses out there who found the time to murder someone?»

«Stabbing victim, a woman was found dead in her home.»

«Then call the husband in! Ninety-nine percent chance he did it.»

«Here is the address», she replied, handing him a square of paper with all her notes on it. «Go take a look, do not arrest the husband unless you have probable cause, and try to get Jim to join you.»

He grunted, snatched her notes, collected his phone, and stormed out.

###


	3. Chapter 3

«It's the husband», Harvey said.

Jim circled their victim, a brunette in her late twenties. Her make up was vivid enough to keep her pretty, save for the dark strokes of blood on her chin. She had been stabbed repeatedly in the stomach, and had taken a few blows to the belly and shoulders, but her face was intact.

«You sure?» the blond asked his partner.

«The neighbors called 911 twice in the last month, domestic disturbance. They've been seen arguing for weeks, I found cards for _two_ divorce lawyers in her wallet.»

«What does _he_ say?»

«Bohoo, I didn't do it», the older man replied. «We'll see if he sticks to that line once we 'gently' confront him with the evidence.»

«Did you arrest him already?»

«A whole _hour_ ago, asshat. You took your sweet time arriving.»

«Sorry, it was a long drive.»

«Yeah. Well, now that you're drown frolicking in crazy land, I suggest we go back to the precinct and wrap this up.»

Jim glared at him, but Harvey was not even looking his way. He was walking to the door, getting his phone out of his pocket to check his messages.

###

Sabrina looked down at her martini and carefully, slowly removed the olive from it. She waited for the last drop of alcohol to fall before placing the pin on her napkin. She was trying not to cry. Focusing on small details like that helped. She took a deep breath, forced a smile on, and looked straight at David. He nodded encouragingly. He was taking a sip of his own glass of wine, a pinkish, salmony liquid that the waitress had poured with a shaky hand. The drinks were probably safe.

David was a good looking man in his early forties, who wore an elegant, tailored suit, the same he had been wearing that same morning when Sabrina had handed him his caramel macchiato. He was a banker, he had told her a bit after they had taken their seats in the empty restaurant. Twenty years her elder, which would usually have made Sabrina a bit cautious, though not to the point of refusing a first date, in normal circumstances.

The young woman fumbled for words.

«Is this your first, ah, uh, blind date?» she asked.

«The second», he replied, adjusting his white scarf. «My first try had a bit of a… Bad ending. I sincerely hope all will go well between us. I can see us having a brilliant future», he said, raising his glass. «Don't you?»

Sabrina pulled at her own scarf. It was tangerine instead of white, but it served the same purpose as David's: concealing the explosive necklace they were both wearing.

«I… I… Think…»

She had no idea what was expected of her. Her hands were shaking, so she grabbed her napkin, and smiled again. She had spotted five cameras, and knew the waitress was watching them, though she seemed focused on the cash register. The restaurant was empty, the windows and the door boarded shut.

David took her hands. The look he gave her was amazingly tender, but he was sweating bullets. His short dark hair was soaked at the temples. His forehead was glistening.

«I know this must seem strange to you. I assure you, it's usually very out of character for me to feel such a connection with a woman as young as you are… But the instant I saw you, the moment our eyes crossed at the coffee shop… I couldn't get you of my mind. Does that make sense?»

Sabrina's eyes darted to one of the cameras, and she brought them back to David. She had the feeling not looking at David was one of the triggers of that necklace. Now that she thought of it, the man had been wearing a scarf in the morning too.

«It does», she replied. «I… Found you quite dashing. I thought about you all day long.»

Her day had been very short. She had worked until eleven, then walked out of the coffee shop for a cigarette and a snack, only to pass out and wake up at the entrance of the restaurant, with David crouched next to her, trying to shake her awake. She had panicked and tried to run, until he had managed to show her the explosive necklaces they were both wearing, and urgently whispered a «pretend». Then he had dragged her paralyzed, shaky self to her feet, and told her he was _so_ glad she was there for their _date_.

They had been pretending ever since. Obviously, he knew the play better than she did.

«Then this should go well!», he announced, releasing her hands. «I suggest we get to know each other better… See where that takes us. So, are you a college student?»

Sabrina nodded.

«Second year business major», she said, making him smile.

«Brings back memories. Gotham U.?»

«Yes. I wanted to stay close to home, for my f-»

 _Fiance._

«Friends», she finished.

David spotted her hesitation and easily translated her words.

«I used to go there, a few years… Decades? Ago», he said. «Does Pr. Forthwidge still teach? There was a rumor he was undead. The age. The looks» - He marked a pause and grinned. - «The _smell._ »

His smile was amazing. It was dashing, and warm, and bright, and his eyes shone with good humor.

«He's still there», Sabrina replied.

David chuckled and nodded, and emptied his glass.

«Undead teachers aside, Gotham U. is a nice place. The friends you make there will be your friends for life. And Burnside is one of the most entertaining parts of Gotham. I partied my first year away.»

Sabrina stared. He looked too tight-laced.

«You _did_?»

«I did. Then I worked two jobs and got a student loan to pay for my _second_ first year, since my father was none too pleased about my grades.»

The waitress came back to them, bringing them their food, and with it the recollection that they were hostages, the three of them, with explosives wrapped around their necks. David squeezed Sabrina's hand. She took a deep breath and thanked the waitress, as warmly as she could.

Then, she kept pretending.

###

Dating Harvey Bullock was not always easy, if only for the fact that Harvey Bullock did not _date_. For someone who was only scared of decaf coffee, he sure ran far and fast away from commitment. And feelings. And mushiness. He would give you the most outrageous courtship, treat you like a queen, be as unrelenting as a Comcast retention specialist, and then… Nothing. There was no mention, ever, of a relationship. You had one-night-stands. Several days a week, for several months.

Scottie didn't mind. She knew Harvey was not 'serious boyfriend' material. Not because he was not, as a person, serious boyfriend material, but because he _did not want_ to be. He would make you feel like a princess and give you his undivided attention for a few select hours a week, then vanish.

Before marrying her mother, Scottie's dad had a cat. Kimba had been eight years old when his human had brought home a red haired «bundle of joy», and had lived his formative years as the sole company of a neglectful bachelor. He had developed the personality that was to be expected from such a pet.

Kimba had been a cunt.

You could pet him, sometimes, if _he_ initiated it, and if you had razor-sharp reflexes to get your hand out of the way as soon as he had decided he wanted to be left alone. If he initiated the petting, it meant he was hungry. He would hiss if you were too affectionate. He would purposely sit two inches away from the farthest point you could reach. If you moved forward, he moved backwards. He peed on your slippers.

Save for the «urinating on footwear» part, having Harvey around was not very different.

Kimba had brought dead mice to Scottie's bed until his death, when she was seven. She was well-versed in nonsensical displays of affection.

«Aren't you gorgeous tonight?» the detective said as she opened the door that evening.

He was lying, because it was laundry day, and she was wearing a washed out tank top over pajama pants. No make-up, either, which meant her eyelashes were invisible and her eyes were displaying not only bags, but an entire Prada factory, courtesy of her kidnapping-induced nightmares.

And Harv' had brought flowers. It meant he wanted to improve the odds of having sex.

«Thank you», she replied with a grin.

She let him in, and he wrapped himself around her, leaning in for a long, hungry kiss.

Dating Harvey Bullock was not always easy because he would not _talk_ to you. He had visited the night before, and she had seen, plain as day, that something was horribly wrong. But as soon as she had tried to ask, he had grinned and excused himself, pretending he had only been dropping by. Scottie had worked with phobics for years, and she knew that even those who came to her of their own free will were not always straightforward with their stories. Harvey would not even admit he wanted support. So she did not ask questions: she had other ways to help.

«What about we grab Chinese?» he offered.

There was a small restaurant two streets away, and it has not been destroyed nor attacked despite the raging gang war. They went there twice a month.

«I thought we could skip that and go straight to bed», Scottie replied, pulling on Harvey's tie.

He groaned and dropped all pretense, lifting her from the ground and carrying her to her bedroom. She threw the flowers in the general direction of the sofa along the way, and his hat, then she went for his clothes. He needed to sink into someone. She let him. He did not roll away afterward. He showed no intent to leave. On the contrary, his hands kept wandering over her naked body, in motions more distracted than caressing. Scottie turned to him and wrapped an arm around his waist.

«What's wrong, Harv'?»

He froze against her, and closed his eyes tightly, and frowned. Then he relaxed - deflated, if you had to be honest - and shook his head.

«Nothing.»

The redhead propped herself up on one elbow, and waited.

«Not sure I can tell _you_ about it», he added in a soft voice, not looking at her.

That was fair enough. You couldn't tell everyone everything. He still needed to talk to _someone_. You could see the thoughts fighting to get out of him. You could see him reconsider telling _her_ , when he was sure doing so was a bad idea.

«Can you tell _Jim_ , then?»

She had met Jim Gordon three times only, in the aftermath of her abduction, well before Harvey managed to take her on a date. She had not talked to the blond since then. As far as she knew, he didn't remember her existence. She doubted Harvey had mentioned her. But she was very familiar with everything Jim Gordon. He _was_ Harv's best friend, and never failed to give the older man reasons to rant. Whining aside, it was clear Harvey worshiped the ground his partner walked on. And he needed to talk.

Harvey chuckled.

«Jim.»

He chuckled again. Then he started laughing. It took him several minutes to calm down, and even after that, he still let out a few breaths that sounded dangerously close to giggling.

«Huh, no», he ended up replying, «I can't tell Jim. The boy has no idea how to handle _his_ problems, I'm not about to let him get near mine.»

 _That_ _'s what friends do_ , Scottie thought. Then she remembered everything she had heard about the younger cop, and conceded he was probably not the greatest problem solver. Her next thought was «Who else, then?». But there was no one else. Every now and then, Harvey would mention Sarah Essen, but she was his boss more than she was his friend. He had named a «Mike», and a «Robbie», and a «Jack», and a «Tommy»… _Pals_ , all of them. Harvey could call someone a «friend», or a «good friend», or a «friend of a friend», or even a «close friend of mine», but all of _those_ were acquaintances.

He had no one to talk to.

He came to that conclusion at the same time as Scottie did.

«A friend of mine might be dead», he said, not quite looking at her. He took a deep breath. «A _close_ friend. Used to be, 'nyway.»

The redhead hugged him and held him close. She could fill in the blanks.

«Might?», she asked after a few long, careful moments.

«Her body hasn't been found», he muttered in a tone as detached as humanly possible. He could have been announcing it would rain the next day.

He was tense enough to snap, and Scottie felt his fist clench and unclench behind her. She stroked his back. All she could do was to let him see she was there, and ready to listen. If she pushed, he would move away. His tension slowly turned to anger, and he started fidgeting. Then he sat up, pushing her away, as if physical contact was already too much. He didn't look at her either, but at the fist he was clenching and unclenching in front of him.

Scottie sat up too, swallowing her worry and faint sense of rejection. Everyone had different boundaries, but seeing Harvey's isolation _hurt._ Scottie had never been alone, not a day in her life. She had more friends than she can count. She had a large, warm, loving family. She had set up support groups so people would not have to deal with their fears and issues alone, whereas Harvey had set out to push the world away. And now, he was in pain, and not only did he have to handle it alone, he wanted it that way. Well, not _totally_ that way, or he would have been long gone, she reminded herself. She wrapped her hand around his fist.

He stared at their hands for a moment.

«It would be _so_ much easier if her body had been found», he said at last. «Or if it had been someone _competent_ bragging about having killed her. But all we have so far is some little asswipe of a whiny brat of a mobster who _might_ have had a lucky shot at her and is telling everyone he took her out. It's so fucking ridiculous it doesn't register.»

Scottie edged closer, moving her hand to his wrist, elbow, and finally shoulder.

«I've been waiting for news», Harvey said.

She wrapped her arms around him.

He let out a sob.

###


	4. Chapter 4

«The sobbing is distracting», Oswald said. «Make it stop.»

Victor took a single step towards Gilzean, and stared him down. The pitiful, broken, whiny _thing_ froze and went silent. He was «ready», according to Zsasz. It had only taken one week, which was quite the pleasant surprise for Oswald, who had been prepared to go without Butch's assistance for much longer. The wretch was a traitor and a liability, doubtlessly, but the club _did_ run more smoothly under his supervision. Cobblepot would have managed the venue perfectly on his own, but his attention was required elsewhere. The war was over. The city was cut apart between his territory, Maroni's, and that of a few overreaching simpletons who were holding positions they could not possibly defend for long.

Oswald had gained control of most of Don Falcone's holdings - _most_ \- and was endlessly disturbed by imbeciles who could not figure out how to run a casino or how to get harlots to walk the streets. He spent his life at his new desk, the one he had taken from Carmine just as the rest of his possessions - and dedicated most of his precious time to phone calls with nincompoops. There were a few hiccups (as Oswald's underlings were woefully incompetent), but business was starting to take off again. Money was streaming in again, though not in quite so large numbers as it had used to. The young mob boss had no doubt he could restore the family to its former glory before the end of the month, as long as some obstacles were removed from his way.

He snapped his fingers so Victor would turn away from his victim. Gilzean jumped. Zsasz, still smiling, looked to Oswald.

«I have a contract for you», the younger man announced, trying not to recoil.

It was ridiculous. This was _Oswald_ _'s_ desk, _his_ office, _his MANSION_ , yet the hitman's presence was crushing. The monster's aura seemed to fill the room, and he moved around with the same easy confidence as if he owned the place.

The hitman smiled.

«You do?»

Oswald drummed his fingers on his desk.

«Giulia Maroni needs to die. How much would you charge for her demise?»

Victor chuckled and said nothing.

«How _much_?»

The freak tipped his head left, then right, thinking about it, then chuckled again.

«Two million dollars», he replied after a while, with an uncanny smile that made the corner of his lips twitch.

Cobblepot stared at him. The estimate was so astronomically extravagant that he could not process it.

«I beg your pardon?»

«Two. Million. Dollars», Victor repeated.

Oswald glared at him, and huffed.

«Are you by any chance inflating the price because you do not believe yourself competent enough to handle the task?»

Zsasz answered that with a crazy giggle, then clicked his tongue, and explained himself in slow, exaggerated syllables, as if conversing with a toddler.

«I would have to go through a great many people to get to Mrs. Giulia. So this is not a price for one, but a price for a dozen, including Cristiano Di Antonio, whom I would call… Evenly matched with me, in our particular area. And, after that, a great many people would come after me for revenge, and I would have to handle them

all.»

Cobblepot glowered. The man knew no shame. He was offered an endless supply of victims, and his reaction was mockery. He didn't want two millions dollars. He wanted to humiliate Oswald and to toy with him. The younger man was having none of it.

«Very well. I'll find someone else», he snapped, earning one more chuckle. «And I'll have to reconsider any future involvement with you. Your lack of professionalism is astounding.»

Victor shrugged, and gave a slight kick to Gilzean's shoe, prompting the man to jump to his feet with a whimper. Oswald stood up too, before he could stop himself, as he realized the hitman meant to take off with the blubbering fool.

«Where are you taking _him_? I already paid you for his services!»

Zsasz smiled again, so slowly you could tell he was unsure of how to do so properly. He paused for far too long before answering.

«I thought I was _unprofessional_ », he said. «I didn't, ah, imagine you would want to keep him.»

«Don't be ridiculous, he has a job to do.»

Oswald looked at Butch and nearly reconsidered. The man was a sniveling mess, which might have been satisfying, but greatly hindered his abilities as a club manager. Moreover, he didn't seem able to keep himself in check. Maybe letting him go back to Victor's basement was the better choice: Cobblepot could enjoy both a large refund and the certainty that the pathetic turncoat was suffering.

Gilzean looked at him in despair.

«Don't let him take me back», he mouthed.

Oswald took a deep breath and sighed. One of those days, his own generosity would be the end of him.

«The clown stays», he ordered. «He has duties to attend, and I had not expected you to be so slow at 'fixing' him.»

Victor stared at him, the corners of his lips moving up and down in small contractions. He nodded and walked to the door. Cobblepot feigned indifference and sat down, pulling a sheet of paper to him and pretending to focus on it.

«Oh, and deal with Nabokov. I assume _he_ can be disposed of for less than fifty-thousand dollars?»

The freak stopped and laughed, perfectly silent, then looked back.

«I will», he said, going through the door.

Oswald took a long, shaky breath, trembling with rage. Gilzean crumpled to the floor and started sobbing again.

###

All things considered, maybe killing Maroni had been a bit of an overreaction. Well, not an overreaction, per se - the guy had it coming - but… Yeah, an overreaction. Fish had not done it because she had to, but because she was _vexed_. She had not cared about her people at all. She had jumped the shark and a _lot_ of people had died.

Still.

Cat did not want her dead. She was pissed, and she would give the lady a piece of her mind if she ever found her, but she wanted her alive and well, and… There was no body, so there was hope. Not that Cat was overly optimistic or anything. But there was no body, so she was looking, and she wasn't the only one. The first few days, the docks had been crawling with Maroni and Cobblepot's men. They had mostly given up, though a few teams were still searching the riverside, farther and farther away from Falcone's safehouse. They weren't expecting to find anything. Selina had eavesdropped on both sides, and the men were mostly walking around to keep their bosses around. As far as they were concerned, Fish Mooney was 'sleeping with her pals'. «Ha ha ha».

Not everyone had given up. Cat had a _feeling_ , and she trusted her intuition a lot. It had served her well. And someone else trusted his gut as much as she trusted hers, because that someone had been steadily walking along the river for three evenings in a row, stopping every now and then to inspect this or that. If this hadn't been Gotham, and if he hadn't been _him_ , he could have pretended he was just taking a stroll or something. He didn't especially hurry, and he littered the paths with cigar butts, and he wasn't about to do _anything_ to get himself out of breath. Selina had always thought he was kind of a smelly, lazy ass, and he was not giving her any reason to change her mind. Then again, Fish had trusted him, and he was looking for her. It was a point in his favor. Cat had checked him on him regularly from afar since she had first spotted him, in case he got lucky.

He didn't. Cat didn't either. So she ended up dropping next to him from her perch on a warehouse's roof, on that third evening, and got a gun to her face for her trouble.

«Wooooohhh!» she exclaimed, raising her hands.

«What the… You just gave me the scare of my life, kiddo!» Bullock snapped, not lowering his weapon.

«Yeah, right, what about you point that thing elsewhere, old man?»

«What, you don't like it when you're on the wrong end of the barrel? _It_ _'s not pleasant, is it?_ »

The guy could hold a grudge. At least he was exercising proper trigger discipline - probably the only discipline he had ever exercised - and his finger was resting on the side of his gun. Not that it was reassuring, or safe, for that matter.

« _You_ _'ve made your point!_ », she shouted. «Drop the gun already!»

He grunted and put the weapon back into his hostler.

«Thought I'd never see your face again. A smart kid would be halfway to the west coast by now.»

Selina shrugged.

«Then again, it's not like you're _smart_ », Bullock added as an afterthought. «What possessed you to join Fish's little circus of horrors?»

Fish had talked about him, a little. «Strange bedfellows, aren't we?», she had said. She had called him a friend. And, when they had caught Jim, and Falcone, and the psychopathic weirdo that was Oswald Cobblepot, and Bullock, in that safehouse… Fish had spared him. «We're cool». And he'd been standing right next to Butch while Salvatore Maroni was getting himself killed. Of course, right after that, he had tried to escape with Falcone and Gordon. He was not what you'd call a faithful friend, unless you were Jim douchebag Gordon.

But he was still searching for Fish.

«Find anything?» Cat asked, choosing to ignore the insults.

«Now what would have I found? I'm just taking a stroll.»

Selina snorted. He stared her down.

«Go home, kid. Or go wherever. Just let it go. She's not coming back.»

The girl shrugged.

«You don't know that.»

«Like hell I don't.»

«You don't know that. If you knew for sure, you wouldn't be looking.»

He shrugged, and lit a cigar.

«Whoever brings her corpse to Cobblepot gets two hundred grands, didn't'cha hear?»

«Yeah, right, I wouldn't trust the guy to _pay_ , if I were you.»

Bullock rolled his eyes and walked away. He was tall but heavy, and his pace wasn't the quickest. The teenager followed. He was set on being silent, and she let him. They were going the same direction anyway, and she was probably safer with him and his gun.

«You really didn't find anything?» she asked again a while later, as he crushed his cigar on the ground with his heel.

The night was falling, and she stared at the dying orange sparks among the ashes for a second or so.

«You're not about to drop it, are you?» he grumbled.

«Prolly not.»

The detective sighed.

«Get it through your thick little skull: she ain't company for a teenage girl. If she came back - _and that_ _'s a big fucking if_ \- you'd do well to keep the hell away. For a start, kid… Organized crime? Really? _How much of a dumbass are you?_ »

«Better benefits than unorganized crime», Selina pointed out.

The cop glared at ther.

«And be that as it may, benefits or not, Fish is _nuts_. Batshit crazy. In case you failed to notice. Nothing good can come of sticking with her.»

The teenager was not blind, but snorted as if Bullock's words didn't make sense.

«Aren't you her friend?»

«Yeah, well, she was not crazy when _I_ met her. What's your excuse?»

« _I_ _'m_ not her friend. I don't even care», Cat retorted.

The man stared at her, not exactly _saying_ «I see through your bullshit», but thinking it loud enough. She fidgeted and looked away, shrugging once again, and then once more, sharply.

«You really found _nothing_?» she asked again, in a slightly broken voice, when he failed to talk or look away.

He paused, and sighed, and shook his head.

«Jack shit, kiddo. Let it go.»

She huffed and shrugged _again_ , then she just put on her best unconcerned expression.

«Too bad. Good luck, then», she said, climbing on the nearest wall to run away.

He watched her go, which she knew, because she watched him in return, well after she got out of his sight. Then she stalked him for the rest of his «stroll», until he returned to his car, sank into the driver seat, and pulled a dark piece of clothing from a duffel bag on the passenger seat. It was a dark coat, black and red, lined with fur.

###

Sabrina put on some eyeliner, and smiled, and some lipstick, and smiled, and took a step away from the mirror, and smiled.

If she cried, as she was inclined to do, her collar started beeping.

It had been a week. After six dates with David, she was starting to get a better understanding of the rules. On that first evening, after her abduction and their first date, he had walked her «home». «Home» was a mobile home underground, in a «street» made of six identical prefabricated buildings, with a sky made of painted concrete and rows of floodlights. The street and homes were surrounded by «woods», or rather a forest themed wallpaper, with photographs of birch trees. At the very end of the street, there was a gigantic screen, where their instructions were printed. So, after David had led her out of the restaurant through the back exit - the only one usable - they had found themselves at the very end of the street, facing the screen, and her new address.

«Sabrina Bakerton, 4 Gardenia Lane.»

And David had walked her home, and told her what a great evening it had been, and attempted to kiss her. That was when the necklace had beeped for the first time, when Sabrina had jumped away. She had frozen at the noise and at his panicked face, and braced herself. Then he _had_ kissed her. After making sure the camera on the side of the door caught their profiles.

«If you need me, I live right next door», he had said, pointing at number three.

He had squeezed her hands, nearly crushing them, so she would be ready for what she would find inside, but she had not been. She had opened to door to be greeted by Fishstick, her _cat_ , her living tabby cat, the one who was supposed to be waiting for her in her flat in Burnside. She had found her own coat laying on the sofa, and her own clothes in the closet, and her own sheets on the bed. Everything had been brought straight from her apartment to her cell.

She had panicked. She had screamed and shouted and wailed and ran outside to try to find a way out, following the walls of the gigantic room «Gardenia Lane» had been built in. She had tried to find an exit, and located stairs going up, up, up, to the ceiling. But when she had tried to climb them, David had caught her. He had pointed at his collar and gestured a «hush» - that was how she knew there was a microphone in the damn thing - and then he had brought her «home» again.

The next morning, after she had passed out in a corner of her living room, she had found the instructions under the door. They were simple, and illustrated with colorful clip-arts. «Beep… Beep… Beep…» meant «smile». «Beep Beep Beep» meant «explosion».

So she smiled, and went on dates with David when the screen at the end of the street prompted her to.

###


	5. Chapter 5

Anon : thanks for the review!

* * *

«Didn't we agree this was in Alvarez's hands?», Essen said, snatching the Ogre case files from Jim's desk.

The blond sighed and leaned back in his chair, nodding. It was not his case anymore. He knew that. Sarah had not _exactly_ chewed him out on not having passed the torch to another detective as soon as Lennon had abducted Barbara - no cop would have been willing, anyway - but she had nevertheless mentioned he should have. For a few days, they had let it rest. The killer was dead and the case as good as closed. All that was left to do was identifying several of the Ogre's victims, and that task had been given to Alvarez.

Then Barbara had attempted to kill Leslie and confessed to her parents' murder.

The autopsy's finding were not sufficient to incriminate her, but they could not prove her innocence either. The forensics report was just as useless. That being said, Barbara had admitted to the murders to both her therapists and Alvarez, and there was little doubt left. Jim did not even try deluding himself. There was a tape of her confession in the Kean's evidence box, and a transcript to go with it.

«Don't bother reading it», Alvarez had warned Jim. «She changes her story every time she tells it. And stop _visiting_. It won't help.»

Jim had read the transcript.

He had thought he suspected, in the previous weeks. He had thought he knew, because he had seen the Ogre's torture room, and he could figure out what the stun sticks and blades and whips were for. He had seen the results of torture in fellow soldiers. He knew how insidious and sickening it could be psychologically, how the torturers would balance pain and relief, cruelty and false compassion. But, at the end of the day, Jim could not think like a monster, and when he tried to imagine what Barbara had gone through… It somehow did not register. He could patch together the worst stories he had heard during his training, and in the army, and random bits and parts of the worst cases the GCPD had to deal with, and even a few select scenes from movies in the vein of Saw and Seven. It had not occurred to him that someone could profess eternal love while electrocuting a woman out of consciousness, nor convince her that holding a knife to her throat as he raped her was a display of affection. But Lennon had done so and it had _worked._ Barbara did not have a word to say against him.

Alvarez was probably right when he insisted Jim should stop visiting, but the blond felt like he had to go all the same. No one else would.

«Where is Bullock?» Essen asked. «A new case just came in.»

«Personal call, I'll fetch him. What is the story?»

«A female body was found under Tricorner Bridge. No ID yet, from what I understand it is very damaged and has spent a few days underwater.»

Jim nodded. Corpses surfacing along the river were a common occurrence in Gotham. Criminals loved to fake suicides, or just to dispose of their victims in a fast and mostly secure way. If you didn't botch it, the bodies were never seen again. The river had not been dragged in two decades, and it had only be done because a mayor had drowned.

«I'm on my way», he announced, grabbing his coat and hurrying down the stairs.

Harvey was not in the locker room, but he found him easily enough, smoking in front of the precinct. He was on the phone - as most of the time lately - and followed Jim to the car with no complain, cutting his call short.

«New stiff?»

«Not so new, if Essen is to be believed. Just found a little late.»

«So where'we goin'?»

«Tricorner.»

«Can we stop for burritos on the way? It's _lunch time_ », Harv' pointed out.

«I love how your lunch time extends from ten in the morning to four in the afternoon», Jim retorted, getting their car out of the parking spot.

«It's noon, jackass.»

Jim grinned.

«And you vanished for that call two hours ago», he pointed out as he drove out of the parking lot, «which mean you've been doing nothing for muuuuch longer than what your lunch time covered. And you haven't even eaten.»

«Well _one_ of us has to be nice and keep in touch with his informants, or we'd get nowhere, ever, right?»

«Right.»

«And if you're gonna nag me about that, I'd like to point out you've been all doom and gloom and personal business all morning again. Don't think for a second I didn't hear you got the Kean's files from Miss Kringle. Again.»

Jim tensed and said nothing. His partner sighed.

«Please stop doing that to yourself. I've been lenient so far but it's got to stop.»

«I'm just making sure Alvarez is doing a good job.»

Surprisingly, Harvey did not push. Not immediately, anyway. He took the time to light a cigar and to smoke it, which brought them in sight of Tricorner Bridge.

«I know people told you already», he grumbled. «I know _Lee_ told you. And Alvarez, and a few doctors, I'll bet. But I get what's going through your head, so I'm _not_ going to tell you to stop going to see her.»

«You're not», Jim replied, midway between a question and an order.

«I'm not. What I'm going to tell you is that she's gone. Take it from the resident expert on crazy-ass exes. She's gone. Nothing you can do to bring her back.»

Jim stared at the road and drove a little slower, aware his focus was slipping.

Barbara's behavior was unnerving. It was off in small and subtle ways, and it was off in broad and brutal strokes at the same time. She acted more or less like herself, when she shouldn't have, and as a totally different person the rest of the time. She was never hostile, she was never unpleasant. She didn't get angry, which wasn't like her. Or maybe it was. She had smiled a lot at the beginning of their relationship. The bitterness and the cold anger had settled in much later, as their relationship degraded. Now, she was pleasant all the time, and elegant, and perfect. She barely interacted with the other inmates, and would occupy her time with books and art. She talked to the nurses and guards, in such a _sane_ way that Jim sometimes wondered why Arkham kept her at all.

It became eerie if you took a step back, and a long hard look at her ladylike act, when the lunatics around her were ranting and screaming and speaking in tongues. The quiet acceptance of her surroundings. The serenity. The impeccable politeness. And the blank stare she would give if prompted on _any_ sensitive topic.

«Are you a psychiatrist, now?»

«I was there when Leslie woke her up, Jimbo», Harvey reminded him.

He was talking of that long, dreadful night after Fish Mooney's ambush. Jim's brain had been on autopilot back then, after a day that had exhausted him into a state of blankness, up to the point he had not even been able to react to the sight of a passed out Barbara, and to Leslie telling him the blonde had just assaulted her. He had just tuned it out, making sure Barbara would be shackled to the guest room's bed when she woke up, so he could deal with it all _later_.

Leslie had taken a quarter of an hour to recover from the attack and gone to tend to Barbara's possible injuries. She had not warned Jim, but had ordered Harvey to supervise.

From what Gordon had been told, his ex-fiancée had been neither serene nor ladylike when she had returned to consciousness.

«It doesn't mean she can't get better.»

«I wouldn't keep my hopes up if I were you, but even then… You have to concedd that if someone can fix her, it isn't you. It can't be you. She's holding a grudge the size of Canada.»

Jim sighed, parked - as they were in sight of their crime scene - and got out of the car.

«She seems to be doing better», he lied.

«She's _faking it_. Remember when she went and tricked Leslie into nearly getting herself murdered?»

The younger man shook his head. He did.

«It doesn't mean there's…»

«Detective Gordon! Detective Bullock! This way», Nygma called them from afar.

He was standing next to the river, surrounded by a buzzing crowd of patrolmen and forensic investigators. Jim and Harvey joined him.

«Aren't you glad you didn't get that burrito?» Jim asked when they saw the corpse.

«Oh, for fuck's sake», his partner moaned.

The body had spent a good amount of time in the river and was bloated beyond recognition, the flesh cracking and falling apart in large chunks, under what had been a white summer dress. It was clear that not all of the damage could be blamed on the water. It lacked a jaw, the neck was torn to the bone, and the shoulders were ripped apart, shards of metal embedded deep within the flesh. Patches of long red hair and rotten skin were sliding away from the skull.

Edward did not fill them in on the cause of death. He did not even attempt a riddle. He had been withdrawn lately, and Jim idly wondered if he had been reprimanded again. Leslie ended up explaining the injuries.

«Initial exam of the wounds indicates that an explosive device was circling the victim's neck. As you can see, the trachea is exposed and lacerated, and the jawbone was torn apart. There's also extensive damage to the upper teeth and to the palate, with fragments of the device embedded in the flesh. There's clear evidence of lesser charges of the explosive detonating at the back of the head, but I'll tell you more once we get to the morgue. The state of the body makes it hard to check for other wounds, but I found no lacerations that were not caused by the bomb, and I see no bruising.»

«That's just messed up. Explosive device around the neck, you mean a necklace or something?» Harvey asked.

«Exactly. There's a very clear pattern of burning and shrapnel.»

Jim took a closer look.

«Could it be a suicide bomber?»

«I doubt it. The range of the explosion would have been very short, or you would see damage much lower on the abdomen.»

«And here I was telling myself we only had nice cases this month», Bullock muttered.

###

You grew used to Victor's presence. It was unsettling at first, much like being observed by a large spider, but you quickly realized the man had the wit and forward-thinking of the average slug. He hovered around Oswald as he had hovered around Don Falcone: like a stray dog waiting for scraps. As much as he teased and bargained on the subject of Giulia Maroni's assassination, he was happy enough to take care of every other contract Oswald threw his way. This mobster, that snitch, and whomever came to Cobblepot's mind when he felt the hitman was growing impatient.

«Are you bored?» he once asked, annoyed by the freak's fidgeting. «Just bring me the head of some hobo. Any hobo, there's hardly a shortage of them. I'll pay you fifty cents.»

Zsasz had chuckled at that, and did as asked, which had prompted a discussion on the meaning of «being literal» and «using figures of speech». What was Oswald to do with the lice-ridden head of some crack addict?

Save for those little hiccups, Cobblepot found the man's presence practical. You couldn't ask for a better bodyguard, and he was unlikely to spy or cheat. He was a simple creature with simple needs. You had to keep him away from Gilzean, who still collapsed into a sniveling mess in his torturer's presence, but that was easily accomplished by keeping the lowly henchman at the club.

Most of the time, it was a fine arrangement.

Every now and then, Zsasz would display a sliver of will. It tended to happen when Jim Gordon's name was mentioned. Oswald had noticed it from the very start - that start being the day the hitman had first been sent after the cop - and thus did not miss the monster's intent look the first time he overheard a phone call to the detective.

«What I am saying, _Jim_ , is that I find it downright disgraceful that you would arrest my employee on blatantly trumped-up charges», Oswald explained to his interlocutor as he observed Victor's reaction, «when I have been nothing but a friend to you. I'm starting to wonder if you are indeed the good and honest man I believed you were.»

He barely paid attention to Jim's answer to that. He was growing tired of the cop's disrespect and temper. Once upon a time, he had hoped for a mutually beneficial relationship (the scales heavily tipped in his favor, obviously), but it was evident that Gordon was unable to cooperate. He was an imbecile, which was a point in his favor and a wonderful string to pull, but his constant tantrums made him a very tedious pawn to move around.

Cobblepot still paused on a particular line.

«Your 'not working with criminals' argument does hardly hold water. I seem to recall you recently volunteered to be Carmine Falcone's bodyguard. It may have escaped your notice, but he is a bad, _bad_ person. Need I put it more bluntly, or in simpler terms? Has your memory grown short? Should I remind you of the day he ordered you to slaughter me?»

Zsasz was smiling and tilting his head towards the desk, blatantly eavesdropping. He licked his lips, and Oswald frowned. This wouldn't do. He nearly hung up on Jim, but the detective beat him to the punch. Cobblepot sent the phone flying.

«Need any help with _Jim_?» Victor asked.

«No, thank you very much.»

«He's treating you… Very, very badly», the creep pointed out with a smile (not that Oswald needed his input to be aware of the fact).

«And I will punish him for it, but _not_ by letting you cut him to pieces as you are bound to do. I'm not about to let his potential go to waste. No, I _will_ teach him how to behave, but I will do it my way.»

The killer's face twitched in displeasure.

«He's a liability. I kept telling Don Falcone.»

«Well, that 'liability' helped Carmine get out of town, so clearly your advise was as moronic as it was out of line.»

Victor took a long breath, jaw clenched, and Oswald though he had maybe gone too far. He reached for the gun attached under his desk.

«I have a plan for Gordon», he added.

The smile climbed back on Zsasz's face, in twitches and spasms.

«You have a 'plan'», the monster railed.

«I have a plan for everything», Oswald snapped back, his fear replaced by mere annoyance.

He always had a plan.

Victor had a point, however. He was being entirely too forgiving of Gordon's antics.

###

Sabrina woke up every morning and checked the screen (The Screen, really) to see when and where she was to meet David. They had a date every day, and it usually used up to four hours of her evening, but she had nothing else to do.

Her jailor didn't want her bored stiff. Her «home» came with a television, a magnetoscope, and a collection of video tapes. She could occupy herself by watching «Kate and Leopold», or «Pretty woman», or «Sleepless in Seattle», and of course «When Harry met Sally». If she didn't feel in the mood for movies, she had been provided with a collection of books, such as «Pride and Prejudice», «Bridget Jone's diary», «Lord of scoundrels», and a metric fuckton of variations of «The Whatever-Titled English Nobleman and Some Girl».

The artificial lights of The Street reminded her too much of her captivity, she rarely went out before David collected her, but she had wandered around the other houses. Only David's seemed occupied. Number 1 and number 2's doors were locked, and the blinds closed. She had asked David about them, making sure to remain in character, but his answer has been very vague.

«Newlyweds used to live there», he had replied, pointing at the first house. «I think they moved. I didn't keep in touch. As for number two, that's Sophie and Nate's house. You have met her. She works at the restaurant. As for Nate, he travels a lot.»

The terrified waitress served them during most of their dates, yet Sabrina had never seen her leave her «workplace», and she had yet to cross path with Nate.

«Have you lived here for long?»

«About six weeks. Shall we have a picnic today?»

Food would appear in their homes as they slept, or while they were on dates. David's suits vanished and came back dry-cleaned. Fishstick «found» some cat toys.

Sabrina had never been more terrified. There was no escape from the cameras, either: they were everywhere, in every room of her house, in the street, in the little corner shop stocked with three magazines and four food cans, and in the restaurant. Her necklace would beep as soon as her face betrayed her fear, however, so the young woman smiled most of the time, except in absolute darkness. She found _some_ relief in David's company. He was a good man, or at least he acted the part. He was nice, and his tenderness and worry seemed genuine, but he would slip every now and then. Sabrina would see the cold fury simmering just beneath the surface, and feel chilled.

He had tried to communicate without words, drawing letters in her palm as they lounged on a bench in the plastic garden.

«I A-M S-O-R-R-Y», he had written, excruciatingly slowly. «I C-A-N O-N-L-Y S-O-F-T-E-N T-H-E B-L-O-W-S.»

He was a much better actor than she was, and he always calmed her when her necklace started warning her.

She had lost track of the time since her abduction when The Screen ordered David to «stay for coffee» after a date. They read the message at the same time and stared at each other. He quickly erased the shock from his face. She failed, and heard beeping. _Maybe it_ _'s just coffee_ , she told herself. She let him in.

David being David, he was wonderfully warm and caring as they drank and discussed. And he was nice enough to try to leave as the clock hit midnight.

His necklace started beeping. Slowly, but David never had to be warned, or very rarely. He stopped, closed the door, and turned to Sabrina. The girl felt her stomach turn to stone and her knees to jelly, as the terror sank in. She couldn't do _that_. She couldn't. She had only ever slept with _two_ boys, one of them being her fiancé. Kissing David was bad enough, and they had to, but she couldn't do it _all_. Not with the cameras everywhere, even in her bedroom. Even _without_ the cameras.

She shook her head and moved away, swallowing a sob. She didn't manage to hold the second in. Her necklace beeped, over and over again.

«I can't», she whispered, taking another step back.

David's mask slipped. The concern and warmth turned to exasperation. The pity vanished. A moment passed. He breathed in, and put on such a loving, sincere smile that Tom Hanks and Hugh Jackman could have learned from his acting skills. Then, he joined Sabrina and grabbed her hands, and made sure they survived.

###


	6. Chapter 6

Harvey walked home at nine in the evening, with a can of beer, a burrito from the closest joint, and bone-deep weariness. Only in Gotham did you get called to three crime scenes in a day. Thankfully, save for the girl with the blown-up head who had been fished out of the river, the murders had been good old-fashioned passion crimes, nothing crazy. Some lady had shot her junkie of a husband, and some guy had beaten his ex's new boyfriend to death. Easy confessions, both of those cases, once Harvey had raised his voice a little.

The «explosive necklace» girl was something else entirely. Leslie and Nygma had taken care of the autopsy, and picked shrapnel from as far as the girl's toes. A part of that shrapnel was jawbone. It was the kind of weird-ass killing who usually had Nerd-boy on a little cloud, but he had been in a piss-poor mood lately, and his observations had been terse and to the point. No riddles.

No lying there, Harvey had nearly felt concerned.

Regardless of Eddie's mood, there wasn't much to be told. You weren't gonna find a manufacturer for explosive jewelry. That kind of crap tended to be custom-made by psychos. They had made a few inquiries around the companies that sold ammonium hydroxide and iodine, but the list was long, and the customer records longer. The girl herself was a Jane Doe. Dental was not exactly an option, and running what was left of her prints would take ages. There was no shortage of missing redheads, and Jim was browsing through piles of reports, but Harvey was pretty sure it would lead nowhere. They had covered the recent disappearances already, with no matches, and a few details seemed to indicate the victim had not been held captive for long, if she had ever been. She had died with a fresh manicure - pink, glittery plastic nails - and in a dress that came straight out Abercrombie's most recent catalog. Chances were no one knew she was missing.

It sucked but, at the end of the day, Harvey did not dwell on it. If you closed two cases in a day, you counted your blessings. The weird, gory one could wait. You knew you'd never see it to the end.

What you did was clear your mind with booze until you passed out. That helped.

He unlocked his door, threw his coat on the back of a chair as he walked in, and sank into the sofa, opening his beer can. Then he turned the TV on and cranked the volume up, as he had heard shifting in the bedroom. He grabbed his gun and went to wait next to the door. It was the only way out: the window frames were good old fashioned wood that distended and bloated on rainy days, and you couldn't open them without some effort. Lately, you couldn't open them, period.

It took a few minutes for the intruder to risk an exit, and she found herself facing the barrel of a gun. Again.

«Oh, come on!» she wailed.

«This is becoming an habit», Harvey remarked, moving the weapon away from Kyle's forehead. «The hell are you doing here?»

He didn't have to ask. She was looking for news about Fish. She had probably found her coat, too. He had stuffed it at the top of his closet, inside a duffel bag and behind three others, but that kid could smell trouble from a planet away. It was probably the first place she had searched.

«Did'ya find anything else?» the brat asked. «I saw the cloak.»

Harvey slipped his piece back into his holster.

«Get out. Out, out, out, now.»

«I'm gonna keep asking!»

«OUT!» the cop shouted. Then he reconsidered. «After you empty your pockets.»

The girl huffed.

«You seriously think there's anything worth stealing in this _ditch_?» she snapped, gesturing at the crumbling furniture and the TV he had bought used a decade before. «What do you think I snatched? Your one jar of mayo?»

So she had even snooped into the fridge.

«Pockets», Harvey repeated, since he knew of her track record.

She puffed and emptied her pockets on the sideboard, dropping his lighter, a matchbox, silver cuff-links he would have pawned years before if he had known he still had them, and two handfuls of tampons.

«I left two in the box», she announced, misreading the look on his face. «I'm not a bitch.»

He had been thinking of how many weird things had appeared in his flat since he had started seeing Scottie, and of how it was maybe time to start to worry.

He collected the matchbox, the lighter and the cuff-links.

«You can keep those», he grumbled, waving at the tampons, that vanished in a blink. « _Now_ get out.»

The kid did not move.

«Can't you go harass _Jim?_ » he asked. «Jim _likes_ you. At least he did before you went and delivered him to Fish. He didn't mention you since. Maybe he's not pissed.»

She tensed.

«Yeah, well, even _you_ are better company than Gordon.»

He lifted an eyebrow at the anger in her voice. Then he grabbed her by the hood and dragged her to the exit.

«Was a pleasure meeting you», he said as he pushed her out. « _Don_ _'t come back._ »

It took the little pest less than five minutes to sneak back in through the living room window. Harvey, who had been trying to enjoy his (lukewarm) burrito, tensed but did not turn.

«She did not tell me you used to be, like, _together_ », the girl said.

So she had unearthed his old photos too. She was long overdue for a kick to the ass.

«Probably because it's none of your business», he replied. «Do I need to shoot you? I can shoot you.»

She jumped on the sofa, crouching on the cushions, and stared him down.

«You know you can just tell me what you found and I'll be on my way.»

He glared back, chewing on his food in perfect silence. Her stomach grumbled, and her eyes moved down to the burrito. She caught herself and looked back up.

«Come oooon», she insisted. «You found that coat _somewhere_.»

Harvey took a sip of his beer.

Maria was a smart woman. From the looks of it, after Penguin had pushed her into the river, she had let the current carry her halfway across town. Picking up her trail had been a stroke of luck. He'd thought she would feel safe in the red lights district, what with her having grown up there and all. Not that her childhood had been uneventful. It had taught her to survive, though. She would have felt safe in those streets because her orphaned teenage self had clawed her way out, and Fish Mooney was nowhere as weak and helpless as that scrawny kid.

«She's dead», he told Selina Kyle. «Bullet wound took her out.»

It was a lie, and the young thief had to see through it, but there was no point telling her the truth.

He had found bloodstains on a wet, slimy staircase that led out of the river and into the Narrows. The blood trail was thin but could be found if you knew what to look for. It had led Harvey to the nearest alley, where Fish had discarded her coat, pushing it into a manhole and leaving a washed-out pool of blood on the pavement in the process. She had rested a few feet away, then made her way out of the alley and vanished.

The cop could have pretended she had stopped the bleeding, but he didn't think so. There were dark marks on the concrete where the trail ended, the kind of dark scuffs you saw when black rubber soles scraped the floor. Someone had been dragged. Someone had fought. Harvey had looked around for a few days, pretending Fish could have backtracked, and followed the river to the sea, but he _knew_. She'd been taken, and he had no idea by who. Maroni's side would have given her a brutal and much publicized execution. Cobblepot, little cunt of a wannabe that he was, would have bragged endlessly. And both sides had made it known that they would pay Fish's weight in gold to get their hands on her, death of alive, so any sane person would have delivered her, stat. Which left the lunatics and the creeps.

Harvey didn't even know where to begin to search. A long buried part of himself was scared shitless.

«Then where's your two hundred grands?» the girl asked.

«My what now?»

«The reward for the proof of her death.»

«Would you just _fuck off_ already?»

«Just tell me where you found the stupid coat and I'll look for her on my own! I won't bother you again. You think I _wanna_ see your face?»

He took a deep, angry breath.

«Do you have a thing for suicide or something? The mob already knows you're the Wayne murder witness. How much deeper into shit do you think you're gonna be if they think you're Maria's best pal?»

The brat jumped back and clenched her teeth. She glared for a few moments. Then she left.

###

Giulia crossed her legs and looked out of the car window as the driver led it away from her safe house. It was rainy, which was good news, as the boys were not inclined to leave their bedroom. They spent their days playing the nintendo and enjoying their impromptu holiday. They were safe, or would be for a while.

She pressed her phone closer to her ear, distractedly listening to the polite greeting of her most frequent caller.

«I swear, Carmine, for a retired man, you are strangely invested in the city's fate.»

«You know me. I'm incorrigible. Sixty years caring about only one thing will leave you slightly bewildered. But I'm glad to say I'm making progress.»

«So you _do_ like Trinidad, after all?»

«I _do_ like Trinidad. It's a beautiful place. Very sunny, which is an adjective I never had the opportunity to utter in Gotham.»

«I'm glad to hear it. What do you want?»

«I just wanted to inquire about that loose end I mentioned a few weeks ago.»

Giulia paused and looked at the driver, who was intently pretending not to eavesdrop. The woman worked for Rino Pontarelli, one of Salvatore's lieutenant who operated in Blüdhaven, and had come to Gotham to assist with the reorganization of the family. She was a latina in her thirties or so, with long black hair and a thin, pinched face. She was also an undercover detective from MCU, which Giulia had not informed Rino of yet. She had merely requested the «driver's» services, as she weighed her options. Salvatore - ever the flatterer - used to call the cop «that horse-faced whore». He also said she had to be the one officer on the force whom could not be bribed. That integrity had motivated Giulia to keep her alive. She could do with a driver too honest to shoot her in the back.

The downside was that she had to watch her words. Up to a point.

«He's fine», she told Carmine. «Unfortunately. He and Cobblepot are joined at the hip, lately, which is not surprising. Their brand of crazy is fairly similar. You'll understand that, in my position, I can't afford a full blown assault on that mansion the boy stole from you, right?»

«I understand. Your family's safety comes first, it goes without saying.»

«I'm saying it anyway. But I _did_ try to lure the maniac out.»

«Did you?»

«Yes, through the simplest channels. I offered him a contract. Unfortunately, he sent one of his girlfriends to arrange the terms, so I just made a very unreasonable offer and let her go.»

Giulia studied Renee Montoya's face. The woman was frowning, clearly listening in. So, she now knew Victor Zsasz was a target. It was a very important, yet very useless piece of information, as every sane person under the sun would react to the news with «Oh, thank God!».

«The longer he is left in Oswald's hands, the more dangerous he will be, my dear», Falcone remarked. «I know your position is precarious, but do not let the situation get out of hand. Victor cares not a bit about his job. What he cares about is the killing. Keeping him in my employ was a way to redirect - contain - his urges… But Penguin cares little about moderation, and he has no sense. I fear Zsasz will devolve more quickly in his company than on his own.»

«You know what I love about you, Carmine?»

«I'm about to be enlightened.»

«When you imply the people around you are blind fools, you do so very politely. But you can save your breath. How stupid do you think I am? Of course that sociopathic little snitch will make Zsasz worse. He makes everyone worse.»

That got Falcone to pause.

«I apologize, my dear, I didn't mean to insult you.»

She wondered if he was actually sorry, or just surprised to have been called out on his crap. It probably had not happened to him in forty years.

«If I manage to solve this particular loose end, I'll let you know», she said, ignoring the apology. «In the meant-»

The car went flying as a van rammed into it. It spun for an eternity. There was a white flash, and the world went still, and Guilia tasted blood. She stared as red droplets fell on her lap, then snapped out of it, and detached her seatbelt with shaking hands.

 _Gun, grab your gun_.

The door opened and Montoya dragged her out.

«Take cover», the cop snapped, pulling her against the side of the car.

There were gunshots. The car's windows cracked. The cop mumbled curses and attempted to shoot their assailants. Giulia's body felt like cotton wool, weak and limp and unresponsive. She reached under her skirt all the same, retrieving her handgun from her holster. There would be hell to pay. There would _absolutely_ be hell to pay, provided she got out of the ambush alive.

 _If Penguin wants to play it that way, he_ will _get that full blown assault on that damn mansion._

Montoya shot again and hit her mark. Her boss - or target, depending on the point of view - wasted a few bullets, but got one good shot in. There was a third man left, who quickly understood he was outnumbered and could not hit them both at the same time. He took cover behind the van and did not move. The two women did the same. Minutes passed, with some baiting and insults from Montoya's side. Guilia just collected her breath, and her wits. She wrapped her shawl around her mouth. Then she reached for her purse, dug through it, and debated for a second on the best grenade to use. She decided the tear gas could backfire, so she went for the flashbang.

A few moments later, a very dazzled henchman found himself facing two loaded guns.

Twenty minutes after that, he found himself facing Cristiano.

###


	7. Chapter 7

Only in Gotham.

It was Oswald's first thought as he read the gazette's headline: «Fake CPS workers snatch children from home». He shook his head - _your usual Monday in town_ \- and sipped his tea. He felt positively serene. He spread blackcurrant jam over his still warm homemade bread, and took a hearty, cheerful bite.

Then Zsasz walked in.

The freak appeared overly smug, as Oswald had expected.

«I hear Giulia Maroni caught your men», Victor taunted him. Or attempted to.

«My men? What in the world are you talking about?»

The hitman chuckled and shook his head.

«She knows they were yours. She will come for you.»

«That would be surprising, seeing how they themselves do not know who they belonged to. Even I was unable to track down their employer.»

Oswald had made sure to ask around, as if he had been surprised by the attempt on the bitch's life. It was all pretend. He knew it, and she knew it. But there was no proof. The three thugs had been hired through a friend of a friend of an acquaintance of an enemy, and that through purely verbal communication. And after that enemy had given the instructions to his acquaintance, as he was bound to do with the fate of his infant daughter hanging in the balance, he had fallen asleep with a cigarette.

Giulia might not have needed proof to strike back, but her forces were stretched thin. In the meantime, Oswald had equipped the mansion with good old fashioned weaponry, all of it pointing at the entrances. Gabe had recruited a fairly efficient team of guards. Oswald was never more than teen feet away from a perfectly concealed panic room, room he had discovered by accident while studying the house's floor plan. He felt safe. Gone were the days when he had to cower in fear and beg for protection. Now, he was the one his enemies needed to be protected from. Having Miriam Loeb as a guest was also quite an advantage, as the entirety of the police force (save for one very obnoxious Jim Gordon) was now inclined to ensure his continued good health.

And Zsasz. Zsasz's recurrent visits were a blessing in disguise. No one was crazy enough to raid the mansion when the maniac was present. His company left much to be desired but, in view of its benefits, Oswald was willing to overlook that small issue. Victor was content enough to dawdle around the place, his attempts to converse only occasional. He was ghoulish and frightening, true, but he was also easily managed, and harmless when you knew how to distract him.

The crime lord finished his toast and focused on the gazette. Without that nonsensical «fake child protective services employees» abduction story, it would have been a slow news day. A body found in the river, a law firm going bankrupt, complaints about the airport from some disgruntled flown-over citizens. Some appeasing speech from mayor James. No, really, with the gang war over, the city was going back to normal. As for that kidnapping case, it stretched belief. Two men, pretending to work for social services, taking custody of some downtrodden woman's boys and vanishing into thin air? Oswald was willing to bet the (mentally ill, as the article pointed out) mother had murdered her sons, and that the bodies would soon be found.

Overall, there was nothing interesting to be found in the paper, and he discarded it.

«You didn't have Jim Gordon killed», Zsasz commented. «You have noooo plan.»

Cobblepot rolled his eyes.

«Sincerely! Just because I don't barrel into it, you have to believe I am not preparing my move. I'm sorry I'm not charging blindly like some befuddled ox. Maybe I should walk into the GCPD right now and start shooting people? Would that do?»

The hitman pursed his lips.

«I'm biding my time», Oswald explained. «I do not need to to murder Jim to teach him a lesson. I don't need to touch a hair of his head. That would be wasting his tremendous potential. No. I will merely crush his spirit so thoroughly that the only thing keeping him on his feet will be the strings I pull. It will be _easy_.»

«Demonstrate, then, creep.»

«Don't call me that. And do I have to teach you your own job? You don't go after someone the day after you argued with them. It would be awfully incriminating.»

###

Watching Jim, lately, was like watching a mirror staring ten years into the past.

Sure, there were some major divergences between their two stories. Dix had never been a damsel in distress, and he and Harvey had sure as hell never fucked. That was one thing. And Dix had not died, that was another. Sure, the Kean lady was technically _alive_ , but she was a full blown case of «Satan take the wheel» if Harvey had ever seen one. He could sympathize on the whole «ex going nuts» thing, really, as he had lived through it, but it didn't quite compare. Maria could be labeled histrionic and possibly bipolar and all, but underneath the rage fits and the homicidal episodes, you could still find _her_. Barbara Kean would have been better off dead as, for all intents and purposes, Barbara Kean did not exist anymore. What was left was a conniving, vengeful lunatic, who played Jim like a fiddle. She was so, so good at playing the doe-eyed, innocent little victim, all the while fucking with his mind.

«She said… She's being so nice. But most of the time she is just… Blank. And when she's not, she's depressed», the blond had explained. «She said things like 'how could I let you walk away, you're the only one who really knew me at all' and 'all I can do now is watch you go', 'look at me now, there's just an empty space'…»

Harvey had stared at him at that.

«Hate to break it to you, but she was quoting Phill Collins.»

He had seen his partner's face fall apart, which was a daily occurrence since the girl had been admitted to Arkham.

«She's toying with you. You _know_ she's toying with you. You need to tune it all out, for Christ's sake», the older man had said.

He did not tell Jim to stop going to the nuthouse, because he knew all about fucking up and having someone else pay the price. The blond would go _every_ day, and then the exhaustion would catch up with him, and he would never show his face in Arkham again. Would he send gifts and necessities, maybe magazines? Sure. Would he call the doctors once in a blue moon to check on Kean? Of course he would. But shame always beat duty. The day would come where he could not bear to show his face to Barbara, and could not stand to see hers either.

In the meantime, he was damn depressing.

The boy had caught a few breaks, though. He was not the kind of guy who'd drink himself numb. Also, he had Leslie. She was a bit nicer than, say, Maria Mercedes Mooney (not that it was a hard goal to achieve). She'd do him good. He wasn't going through all of that shit alone. He'd be fine. Harvey tried to help his friend along the way, but you had to balance «talking sense into him» with «not bruising his tender, battered feelings». A vulnerable Jim was a weird thing to have to handle. Thankfully, Soldier Boy didn't like to let his weaknesses show, and attempted to work the guilt away.

«I think we have an ID for our Jane Doe», he announced after his ninth phone call of the day. «Fresh missing person report. Delores Stephenson. Red haired college student, wealthy family, was living on her own in Burnside.»

Harvey looked up from his crosswords and removed his glasses.

«What makes you think it's the same girl?»

«Matching birthmarks, same blood type as our vic'.»

«And they report it now?»

«Here is where it gets strange. She was supposedly on a trip. She left on a whim, bought a train ticket to Florida and emailed her family that she was taking a break from work. She sent _postcards_. Her father grew worried when he stopped getting them, so he called the motel she was supposedly staying at… They'd never seen her. As for her job, she quit by email ten minutes after buying her train ticket online, which she did from her apartment. MPU did some digging already. The IP address for the online transaction matches her home's. As for the postcards, they _of_ Miami, but were sent from Gotham.»

«So someone snatched her and covered it all up? Had _her_ cover up her own abduction?»

«That's the idea. If she booked that trip herself, she was grabbed before she got to the station, because she never collected the tickets. Or maybe she was taken from her flat and our perp covered his tracks at the same time.»

And he got her to write postcards to her family, when she knew it would prevent her from being found. Well, an explosive necklace was a pretty good motivator.

Harvey groaned.

«Let that guy not be a repeat offender. I've had it with serial killers.»

Jim stared at his desk for a moment, lips pursed, then shook his head.

«MPU sent pictures and hair samples to Lee so she can confirm the ID. We should go and check that apartment. It was searched already, but maybe it can tell us something.»

As it turned out, there was little to see in that apartment. Family pictures. Fancy fluorescent fake flowers. Fairy-themed lamps. A month's worth of dust. A wardrobe filled with winter clothes only. No socks, no panties, no bras. All of that had possibly been packed away for that trip Delores had never taken. Harvey peeked at some pictures of the girl, and he had to admit she was probably their Jane Doe. The hair color was a definite match, as well as its fuzzy, curly type. The body type was about the same, bloating aside. She'd been cute, too, and nearly a kid still.

Jim examined the place, mostly silent. He peeked at this and that, as if some plastic cactus could give him a better sense of what had happened. It was a waste of time. There had been no fighting in the flat, no breaking and entering. There was nothing to find. All he was managing to do was make himself see the girl as a person, which was gonna make him pissed and driven and insufferable. Harvey walked out and waited in the street, lighting a cigarette.

His phone rang.

«Captain?» he answered.

«You need to come back to the precinct _right now_ », Sarah announced. «Whatever you and Jim are doing, drop it. I want the two of you back this _instant_ , am I clear?»

The detective was not unused to be called to the precinct, and was fairly adept at figuring out when he could take his bloody sweet time arriving. Now was not one of those times. Essen's voice was sharp and adamant.

«'Somethin' happen?»

«Yes. Just get Jim and come back.»

###

Sabrina woke up at four in the afternoon, to a persistent banging noise. She had planned to sleep the day away, as her daily date was only at seven. Gardenia Lane was usually silent as a tomb, so the noise confused her more than it grated her nerves. She stumbled out of bed, put some pants on, and walked out of her house. The noise came from Sophie and Nate's garden. For the first time, the house's windows were open, and there was light inside. As for the noise, someone was banging something on something metallic. And giggling in a child's voice. Sabrina froze, then raced to the garden, circling the hedge.

A toddler was sitting on the artificial lawn, smashing a wooden spoon against a cooking pan.

She thought she was dreaming. A child didn't belong on the Street. David had told her about Nate's existence. She knew Sophie from the restaurant, as the jittery, closemouthed waitress that cooked their food and served them. But a child was not supposed to be there. Certainly not a three years old little boy with fluffy blond hair and an upturned nose. He noticed her and looked at her, eyes going wide with surprise.

He wore one of the necklaces. It was just the same as Sabrina's: black metal wrapped in a layer of cloth so it would not chafe the skin, with a black plastic box for the microphone and speaker.

She stared at him. Her heart was thumping in her ears, and she felt light-headed. She was breathing too quickly.

Sophie ran out of her home.

«I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I completely forgot you had moved in. The noise must have been driving you insane», she said, grabbing the little boy by the waist and lifting him up. «Shawn is not used to having people around. He runs totally amok.»

Sabrina didn't quite manage to answer. Sophie gave her a brilliant smile, totally different from her usual withdrawn expression. She was a beautiful woman, when she smiled. She had lustrous brown her that fell in thick curls on her shoulders, almond-shaped green eyes, and a lovely heart shaped face. Then again, if she was kept captive to portray the female protagonist of some twisted romantic plot, she had to be beautiful. David was dashing. Sabrina herself was gorgeous, and she knew it.

«Say hello, Shawn!» Sophie prompted.

«Hellooo!» said the toddler.

Sabrina was barely keeping herself upright.

«Hello, Shawn», she replied in a strangled voice. «Nice to meet you. How old are you?»

«Tu-ree!»

«You're a biiig boy», Sabrina commented automatically, flatly.

She hoped, she bitterly hoped that the boy had been abducted with his mother. If he had not been, then he had been born in their prison, and Sabrina could not process that thought.

 _It could happen to you. It will happen to you._

She thought of David pushing into her as she swallowed her sobs and felt even more ill.

 _It could happen to you. No condoms, no pills._

She had scrubbed herself raw afterwards.

«Do you want to come in?» Sophie asked.

She was as good as an actress as David, that woman. Now that the focus was on her, her mask was perfect. She had not bothered to look that sunny and nice in her role as a waitress. The younger woman blinked, trying to focus.

«I just made fresh coffee», her fellow captive added, her tone getting more urgent.

Sabrina forced herself to smile and nod, then followed her «neighbor» into the house.

###

Fish couldn't move, nor could she open her eyes. It was not that she was restrained, nor paralyzed, but she felt like she had slept a thousand years. Her limbs did not quite react to her will. She was in pain - a detail to be ignored - and her thoughts were muddled and slow - a severe problem she had to shake herself out of. _Move_. She tried, but her muscles barely twitched. So she berated herself, and taunted herself, and sat up in one quick, sharp move. Her entire body screamed in pain, as if it had been torn to pieces, and she passed out.

###


	8. Chapter 8

All of his ranting about his job notwithstanding, Harvey felt naked without his piece and badge, so he went home to grab his spare gun.

Usually, on a day like this, he'd have walked down to the seedy little bar at the corner of the street, tuned out the juke-box and the banter of the pool players, and silently made his way to «black out drunk» territory. Sleep was a sparse commodity in their line of work - once you lost the self-righteousness, anyway - so he aimed for unconsciousness. His «usual» had started shifting a few months before, after he'd finally managed to drag Scottie to some fancy Italian place. He hadn't counted, but he was pretty sure he slept in her bed more often than in his own, by now.

Scottie was best described as perfection wrapped in fun, with the extra advantage of copper-red hair, which would have blindsided any man, and Harvey more than most.

It was pretty much impossible to feel miserable around her (unless she was actively being drowned by some psycho, and that didn't happen every day). You just slipped into automatic «don't fuck this up» mode, and found yourself grinning, and joking, and teasing, and more generally being less of an ass. A few week ins, you realized you hadn't acted this pleasant since 92, and felt this pleasant since… Possibly since that time you got a ticket to see the Stones on tour, back in 81.

So he called her.

«Hey, I was about to head out for pizza. Feel like joining me?»

They met at her place and - even after that shitstorm of a day - he felt himself grin. They fell into easy banter. She told him about her day - an afternoon running around with friends to plan a bachelorette party that had involved rating male stripper websites and their use of Comic Sans (whatever that was) - and about her plans for her next support group meeting (as she had not let Crane scare her off the whole prospect). She didn't talk much about her job as a career counselor, and that was for the best. Being suspended until further notice, Harvey was sorely in need of career advise, and did not _want_ any.

«So how was _your_ day?» she asked when he ran out of questions and jokes.

«Seen worse», he replied.

He had to tell her. It would be all over the news, like that police brutality case a few months back. Except, this time, he would not get out of it on account of being a cop. Brady had been real protective of his men and didn't like trouble, so drama would go away quietly and swiftly. Loeb, however, had an ax to grind with Jim and him, so they were going to be roasted alive.

«Good news is I'm available for movies and dates and everything you feel like doing, for the foreseeable future. Less good news is I'll be broke as hell all the while. Hope you don't mind.»

Scottie stared at him, stunned.

«What happened?»

«I arrested a guy a few weeks ago. Husband to a stabbing victim, the wife was looking into divorce, there were reports of domestic violence. So I brought him in, and he cracked and confessed to the murder.»

«Yes?»

Harvey closed his eyes, exhausted. Essen had chewed him out for hours, along with Jim.

«I told you, Harvey! I told you not to arrest the guy if you didn't have probable cause!»

«I did! We did! You saw the case files», he had snapped back. «Several interventions for domestic disturbances, the wife was lawyering up, and the man _confessed_ , for fuck's sake!»

« _Under duress!_ And trust me, when he sues the department, the DA is going to have a field day, between _your_ history and the fact that _neither of you_ bothered to do your jobs.»

What had stung, really stung, was how betrayed Sarah had sounded. Harvey was used to being a disappointment - he had never been that good at his job - but this should have been an easy case. He had not even tried to dig, when a ten minutes phone call could have prevented the entire mess.

«A vigilante nailed the actual perp», he explained, looking away. «Killed him, left the murder weapon - the stabbing case's, I mean - next to him, along with all the evidence. Then he sent reporters to the crime scene. Turns out our victim was having an affair and broke it off, her lover didn't take it well.»

Scottie gaped, and mouthed the beginning of a comforting sentence, but stopped herself. What could she have said? She was smart. She could put two and two together. If he had gotten the victim's phone records - as the vigilante had - he would have found frequent calls to a male coworker. If he had obtained her message history - as the vigilante had - he would have found pleading messages that slowly turned to threats. Harvey had trusted his gut, as usual, and it was never a good idea. For years, it had not mattered, or he had lucked out. Then he'd been paired up with Jim, and Jim was not one to neglect evidence, nor to overlook the simplest leads. Not usually.

«The husband was released, and his lawyer is encouraging him to sue. Now, we did nothing more than the regular good cop, bad cop routine, Jim and I, but the asshole is claiming he was beaten into confessing. It might just fly. I've been suspended for roughing up suspects before.»

She sighed.

«His lying might be what will get you out. He has no proof, does he?»

«The footage of the interrogation went 'missing'», Harvey said. «Which is not good news for us, it looks like we have something to hide.»

He was willing to bet the tape had vanished about five minutes after Loeb had learned about the new murder. It was too good an occasion to take Jim's badge away. The commissioner would bury them.

«So what's your situation, exactly?»

«Suspended with no pay until further notice. Jim too. Probably getting fired down the line. Me, it's no skin off my back», he lied. «Security guard fits me better anyway, I'm getting old, all that running around and chasing criminals is not helping my knees. Jim… He'll bounce back.»

That was an even bigger lie.

Jim had not argued with Sarah. He had apologized, flat out. «It was a grievous error in judgment on my part. I will take whatever punishment is coming my way», he had said. And, when Essen had let them go, the blond had left without a word, avoiding Harvey's eyes. It was his right. Everything he had worked for was coming crashing down. There would be no cleansing of the GCPD if Gordon could not stay on the force. And all had gone to shit just because Harvey was a lazy, careless bastard.

Scottie stared at the table's candle, lost in thought.

You knew things were bad when a professional counselor with a bachelor in psychology could not come up with a motivating comment.

«Is there anything I can do to help?» she asked after a while, having finished her analysis and arrived at the same «you're doomed» conclusion as the detective had.

«Well, if you're not eating that mascarpone…»

###

Gillian Loeb was, from Oswald point of view, a conniving and treacherous opportunist who had made his way to the top by dragging everyone else down. He greatly appreciated all of those traits, and would have applauded his accomplishments, had the man not constantly compromised his plans. They had a pleasant business relationship, mostly based on the excellent care Oswald provided to young Miriam, but Gillian was not supervised 24/7, and would at times inadvertently trample Oswald's careful work. His feud with Jim Gordon also had to stop.

Against his best judgment, Oswald still felt oddly protective of the blond firebrand. He was not done with him.

The crime lord was sitting in his expensive black leather sofa - a comfortable and elegant piece of furniture he had bought to replace Carmine's outdated and washed out decoration - and watched the commissioner bleat through his press conference on the wide flat screen TV freshly attached to the living room's wall.

«This gross miscarriage of justice will not go unpunished», Gillian was saying. «The two detectives involved in this case failed mister Parson. They failed the GCPD. They failed us all, by further victimizing an innocent man who had just suffered the worst of personal tragedies. Full light will be made on the circumstances that allowed their blatant disregard for justice to go unnoticed. They will be disciplined, as will be any superior who enabled this horrendous travesty. They…»

Oswald rolled his eyes and stabbed the apple he was peeling.

«What is father talking about?» Miriam asked from her own seat.

She had nearly free roam of the mansion. A bodyguard followed her around, more to protect people from her than the other way around, but she was not much of a bother. As long as you didn't argue with her and provided her with fresh canaries every day, she was quiet as a mouse.

Oswald cut his fruit into quarters and put them on a plate on the coffee table.

«A misunderstanding, Miriam. I'm afraid an evil man told some lies to your father, and he is now repeating them. I will make sure he is quickly informed of the situation, then everything will be fine.»

«My father won't have any problems at all, will he?» the young woman asked, panicking.

«Absolutely not, you have my words. Now, why don't you go play checkers with Gabe?»

She routinely won. Cobblepot was near certain that his man didn't let her.

«Why can't my father visit? You know it is _our_ game!»

«As you can see, he is very busy nowadays», the mob boss said, pointing at the television. «Work, and work, and more work, as I already told you.»

«He used to make time for me!»

Her temper was flaring, which was not a good thing. Her guard took a step forwards. Oswald stared at her, pointedly.

«You know full well your father gives you all the free time he has. Would he appreciate a tantrum where you accuse him of not caring for you? Wouldn't he be hurt?»

The blonde hesitated and lowered her eyes. Murderous urges aside, she was an eight years old at mind, and a naive one at that. She was very easy to trick.

«I'm sorry. I will write him a letter telling him to take good care of himself and that I will be patient. Will you send it for me?»

«Without delay. And, since you've been so nice, ask Martin to retrieve the Zara catalog. I believe you deserve a fancy new dress and some jewelry. Don't you?»

Miriam's eyes lit up, and she ran to him to give him a crushing hug.

«You are so nice, Oswald!» she said.

He tensed, awkwardly detached himself, and adjusted his necktie with nervous hands.

«I'm glad you think so. Now, off you go. Your letter won't write itself.»

The woman-child ran off, happily skipping out of the room. Martin followed her. Oswald looked down at his apple. The quarters had started going brown, so he huffed and left them there, to be thrown away by the maid. He walked into his office and called a friend.

###

Two years. Sophie had lived on Gardenia Lane for two years. She had «moved in» and met Nate, a young widower with a son who sorely needed a mother, and they had «fallen in love».

Two _years_.

Had people outside tried to find her, and failed, or had no one cared about the woman at all? Sabrina did not know what to hope for. She would have preferred for Sophie to be a nobody, someone nobody had missed. It would have meant no one had searched for her in vain. It would have meant the Lane was maybe not buried too deep too be found, that someone could follow leads right to the place. Sabrina knew her family was looking for her. Matthew, her fiancé, would have noticed she was gone on the day of her abduction. If he had not - and why wouldn't he have? - her mother called every other day.

She had to believe she would be found, or she would go crazy.

 _Two years._

She had left Sophie's house just in time for her date with David, after a long and artificial chat over tea. The older woman had been the perfect housewife, serving cookies on elegant white porcelain plates painted with tiny roses. She'd poured tea from a matching teapot, that could have been stolen from a Disney movie. They had used actual silverware. Sophie never looked at the cameras, and was an expert at turning her head so said cameras could get the best angle.

Shawn seemed to know he had to play where he could be filmed. If he had to pass behind furniture or to move to another room, he hurried.

«I met Sophie», Sabrina had told David after the kiss and the embrace their jailer required. «Did you know she moved in two years ago?»

Her companion had nodded, carefully taking her hand and leading her towards the restaurant. He was extremely cautious about touching her, ever since their first time. Sabrina saw the guilt and the horror. She knew he felt bad. It did not make her feel better. They still had sex after every date, because they did not have a choice and the man was intent on keeping them alive whether she wanted him to or not. And she didn't blame him. She understood. She was grateful. But she was ill to the pit of her stomach and she could barely keep her sobs in in the bedroom.

«I did. She brought me a welcome basket when I moved in, gave me some tips about the place, and Mrs. Valentine, and so on.»

«Mrs. Valentine?»

«Our upstairs neighbor», he had said, looking up to the blue tinted floodlights that were supposed to replace the moon.

«Mrs. Valentine», Sabrina had repeated.

They were held by a woman. It made sense. Sabrina had nearly smacked herself for not having considered it. As if the stupid romantic scenario they were supposed to enact left any doubt.

David had all but dragged her to the restaurant, a nervous smile on his face.

«Let's go. I don't know about you, but I'm starving.»

Three hours later, they went back to her place and raped each other under threat of death again, then the young woman went to shower and cry. She cried with a smile, of course, and the necklace did not beep for long. When she returned to her bedroom, David was waiting for her. He had put his pants back on, as well as his shirt, though the shirt was crumpled and unbuttoned. He was sitting on the corner of the bed, clearly worried.

«Are you alright?» he asked, and a wave of terror ran through Sabrina.

He was not acting. It was going to get him killed. Her throat closed up, her eyes went wet, and she stood there frozen, unable to answer. He stood up, quietly, and turned the lights off. She blinked, letting the tears run on her face. He joined her, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her shaking shoulders and kissing her forehead. A high pitched sound escaped her, a keening noise that felt like it came from someone else, from a crying child. She had not made a sound like that in a decade. David held her closer, rocking back and forth, a hand stroking her hair. She wrapped her arms around him and held on for dear life, burying her face against his shoulder.

Her collar was not beeping anymore. Maybe the monsters slept.

She raised her head and pressed her lips to David's.

###


	9. Chapter 9

«It's been a while since you last visited», Barbara said with a smile. «I was worried.»

«I've been busy», Jim replied, crumpled on his chair.

He had taken the habit of sitting right in front of her, pulling his chair next to hers instead of staying on the other side of the table, as he was supposed to do. It was like he wanted to be close, when he could not bear to touch her. Every time their had accidentally brushed against each other, he had jumped away in revulsion.

«Fourteen days», she informed him, in a kind voice. «I hope nothing is wrong.»

He stared at the floor, in silence, for a long while.

He was miserable. Of course he was. Arresting an innocent man for murder would do that to him. He _lived_ to do the right thing. He rushed into it and did not care what and who he trampled in the process, but he defined himself as a good man. Faced with the evidence that he was not one, he couldn't define himself at all. And he couldn't even find refuge in his work, since it had been taken for him… And since he could not do it right, anyway.

«Can you stop that?» he asked.

«I'm sorry?»

«We both know the whole concerned, friendly thing is an act, don't we? Why don't you show your true self for once?»

«I'm me. Should I cackle like a lunatic, maybe? Is that what you expect?»

«I don't know, maybe make some tear-wrenching speech taken straight from Phil Collins? How does that sound?»

«Oh! You noticed?»

«Of course I fucking noticed», he snapped back, whispering the swear word. «Do you think I'm an idiot?»

«I'm sorry. I didn't think what I told you mattered at all - it never did - so I just went with whatever I heard on the radio that day.»

His eyes snapped back to hers. He just stared at her, livid with rage. She gave him her prettiest smile.

Minutes went by.

«I'm sorry if you ever believed that», he hissed. «But that's a vicious _lie_.»

Barbara looked at him and said nothing, watching his anger grow. He bit the inside of his cheek, and clenched his jaw.

«Why did you attack Leslie?»

«S-she, s-she k-ept a-ask-asking a-bout J-Jason Lennon», the woman replied in a distressed voice, letting her eyes fill with tears. «I-I don't k-know what c-came over me, it j-just, j-just… It's like everything went black and then I didn't know what I was-»

«STOP IT!»

She stopped and grinned.

«I attacked her because I _could_ », she added moments later, when Jim tried to say something himself. «Because her hypocritical so-called compassion was getting on my nerves. Because I grew tired of you both lying to my face.»

Her ex-fiancé moved away in his chair, leaning back as far as he could. He studied her face in horror and said nothing.

«Oh wait!», she exclaimed. «Actually, it was because she's your new girlfriend and I'm soooo jealous and heartbroken and how could you ever replace me when I told you I would come back and then when I _did_ I found you kissing in that locker room and it just destroyed me and-» - She gasped for air. - «I just broke into tiny little pieces and I couldn't pick myself up so I kept putting a feet in front of the other and pretending I would be fine until Jason found me and… Phew. I'm sorry, where did that sentence start again?»

Jim looked so lost, trying to separate the wheat from the chaff, that she burst out laughing.

«Now that I think of it», she said, «that's not even true. I did it because God told me she was a heathen and I had to punish her for her sins.»

«That his not _funny_ », the cop snapped.

«I beg to differ. This is hilarious.»

«Whatever you have against me, even if I hurt you, you have no _right_ to take it out on Leslie. This is between _you_ and _I_ , are we clear?»

Barbara looked down at the yellowish tiled floor, then turned to the yellowish tiled wall, then looked up to the slightly less yellowish ceiling. She opened and closed her mouth as if searching for the right words.

«You-» she started.

Jim frowned and waited.

«Y-you had me several years ago», she murmured, looking back to him. «When I was… Quite naive? Well, you said that we made such a _pretty_ pair. And t-that you would never leave» - She took a deep breath. - «But you gave away the things you loved and-»

«WILL YOU STOP IT WITH THE DAMN SONG LYRICS?» he screamed, jumping to his feet, as he recognized Carly Simon's «You're so vain».

Barbara burst out laughing and bit her lip to stop herself, then wrapped her hands around his clenched fist.

«Sit down. Aren't you getting exactly what you came for?» she asked.

He snatched his hand away. She waited, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to start shouting. He decided against it and sat back down in his chair.

«And what», he murmured, «did I come for?»

She took his hand again, and didn't let go when he jumped away in disgust. He forced himself to stay still and did not try to free himself.

«You never asked for my reasons before, have you? You don't need them. You don't dwell on the past, it's not your style. You're someone who'd rather cut the rot away and build anew. Which is why the question was never relevant, as long as you saw ways to fix me. But that's not what _this_ visit is about, is it?»

He squirmed, uncomfortable, but she held on.

«I think things are not going too well for you», she said softly. She might have enjoyed to see him squirm, but she still cared about him, and she _knew_ him. «You feel miserable, and angry, and you have to let it all out _somehow_. Except it's _yourself_ you're angry with, and you can't be at war with yourself, so you came to fight with your mentally ill ex-girlfriend instead. So you could have someone _evil_ to lash out at.»

His hand flew out of hers and he raised it to strike.

He didn't. He stopped himself.

But he had it in him, somewhere. And now he knew it.

###

Bullock had been asking around for days. Selina had followed him around for just as long, though she had not let the asshole see her. Being the less observant cop in the world (as confirmed by every newspaper in town), he had not spotted her. She had learned _all_ she didn't want to know about Harvey Bullock, however, from his favorite brand of cigarettes (Lucky Strikes) to the name of his surprisingly pretty girlfriend (Scottie), and the color of his boxers (which she had promptly done her best to forget, did the guy have to piss in random alleys?). The guy didn't seem to have anything to do, what with being suspended, so she had ample opportunity to spy on him.

Two weeks before, he'd been asking about suspicious vehicles. Then his questioning had moved on to gray vans only. He wasn't quite mentioning Fish, but the friends he had among the working girls understood what he was looking for and helped as they could. Not that they had anything interesting to said. The trail had gone cold. A gray van, that was all they could tell. It had been seen in the red lights district, first driving along the river, then circling the streets of the area. Which meant Fish Mooney had been captured and the kidnapping couldn't be nailed on the usual culprits, like King of the Asses Cobblepot. Bullock didn't have any clue of who the abductor could have been. Selina didn't either, until Ivy commented on some article in the Gazette, with her usual niceness and compassion.

«Think they'll even find the bodies?» she had asked over a bowl of cereals, using the newspaper as place mat.

«What bodies?» Cat had asked, confused.

They'd been squatting in some old man's apartment while the man was in the hospital, and the young thief had watched the news about every day. Save for Fish's, no bodies had gone missing that she knew of. On the contrary, quite a lot had been found.

«The Winston boys», Ivy had explained. «The crackhead's kids.»

The older girl had stared at her friend, a faint wave of suspicion coming over her.

«I guess if the mom didn't kill them, she probably sold them to a pimp or something», the redhead had added with a shrug. «Dope doesn't come cheap.»

Selina had stared some more.

«I have to go», she had shouted after a few seconds, grabbing the newspaper and running off.

It had taken her twenty minutes to get to the red lights district, and twice that to find Bullock. When she _finally_ spotted him, she dropped down right in front of him from the closest fire escape.

«There's something you don't know», she announced. «And I need you to look into it.»

«I'm starting to wonder if you _want_ me to blow your brains up. Do you _have_ to sneak up on people like that?»

« _Listen to me!_ »

He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

«What do you want now?»

«Kids are going missing», she explained.

«Yeah?»

« _Kids_ are going _missing_ », she repeated. «How does that not catch your attention? Don't you remember your own damn case?»

She saw him rack his brain to figure out what she was talking about. Then he stared at her.

«I think someone would have noticed if brats had started to vanish by the busload _again_.»

She waved the Gazette under his nose.

«Not by the busload. But they're quietly walked out of their homes by fake social workers.»

« _Two_ kids. And sorry to break it to you, but the meth head mom probably drowned them and forgot about it. Story's totally _crazy._ »

«Will you stop being an ass for five seconds and _shut the hell up_? I'm telling you I know something you don't.»

«Then _spit it out already!_ »

Cat went silent and looked around, as there were a few people in sight and you never knew who was eavesdropping. She grabbed him by the sleeve and guided him to a quieter part of the street.

«When she left town a few months ago, after the thing with Don Falcone, when she had to run, she left by boat. And there was a pirate attack, and she was captured», she explained.

«Was she.»

«Yeah, she was. Human trafficking ring thing. Not the sex kind. The organs kind.»

The cop raised a eyebrow and looked at her with his best «and you believed that?» expression.

«And she was taken to an _island_ », Selina continued, voice raising. «And she was locked up in a basement with dozen of people who were kept alive so they could be harvested. _And if you don_ _'t believe me,_ we can go find some of the people who got out with her, I'm sure they're still in Gotham. You've seen her team, right? Plenty of cripples?»

«An island», he repeated. «With some kind of prison.»

«Yeah, some kind of prison but not just that. The place was some kind of _hospital_ where very rich people would go to get patched up, and Fish tricked the psycho doctor who ran the place so she could escape with the other prisoners.»

Bullock wasn't mocking her anymore, which did not mean he believed her, but was a good sign.

«She escaped but she didn't have the time to make sure that doctor was dead», Selina continued. «I know all that because she told me that once she would have control of Gotham, she was going to go back and finish the job.»

Now, she had the detective's full attention.

«And that doctor? The one who cut up people? His name was Dollmaker.»

###

It was bound to happen.

«Inside», Oswald said.

He should have seen it coming.

«Inside», he repeated when Victor failed to move, and did not even appear to notice his order. «Now!»

Zsasz jumped, torn from is contemplation of young Miriam Loeb. The young woman had been sitting in the garden, holding a decidedly dead canary (Martin would have to be told to replace it) which she was petting. With a knife. As she tried to decide how to to best slice his flesh away so she could get to the bones. Oswald had seen her do it. She was quite adept. Which was apparently Victor's opinion, for the freak had appeared transfixed.

Cobblepot stared him down. He felt oddly protective of Miriam. At first, he had found her uncanny, but she had been around long enough for her to feel familiar and, truly, she was just a lost child. A very young and innocent child, despite her appearance and compulsions. Which meant she had to be protected from predators.

The criminal pointed at the door, waiting for the hitman to go back inside. He followed him in and slammed the door.

«This won't do», he warned.

The creep smiled hesitantly, then all but grinned, laughing in silence. Oswald was not about to be impressed.

«You are to stay away from Miss Loeb», he announced. «She's a vulnerable, innocent young creature and you are not to get any ideas. She's under my protection and she will remain unharmed _and_ unseduced. Should you attempt to approach her, I will carve your eyes OUT with your OWN BLOODY _INSTRUMENTS. ARE WE CLEAR?_ »

Zsasz actually took a step back.

###


	10. Chapter 10

«An island. We're supposed to find an island. Somewhere in the ocean. With, as identifying features, 'has an hospital and an underground prison'.»

«Drop the pessimistic wise-ass gig, you don't do it nearly as well as me», Harvey retorted. «And yeah, with an hospital and an underground prison. It's not like we have _nothing_. Rich people getting new parts? Miraculous recoveries? There has to be something to find.»

Jim raised an eyebrow and tried not to feel like a photocopy of himself.

His partner had not shown his face in two weeks. Gordon had not tried to contact him either, so he had no right to complain, but he would have lied if he had said he had taken his friend's disappearance well. Then again, that was Harv'. When facing trouble, he'd retreat, and would only be lured by life or death situations.

Jim supposed organ trafficking rings _were_ a life or death situation, though Bullock usually needed the danger to hit closer to home to actually involve himself.

They had met two streets away from the man's place, in the parking lot of a fast food joint, after a cryptic phone call.

«So are you going to tell me how you stumbled upon that story and why Selina Kyle is spying on us from the roof of the launderette?»

Harvey flinched and looked up, causing the girl to jump out of sight.

«OH COME ON!», he screamed. «WE KNOW YOU'RE HERE, YOU MIGHT AS WELL COME DOWN!»

He waited. Jim lifted his second eyebrow and waited too. It took nearly a minute, but the teenager scaled down the wall and joined them, huffing.

«Told you I didn't want to work with _him_ », she whispered to Bullock.

«Oooh, poor baby. What about you suck it up and stop whining, you brat? You want help, you take the help you get.»

«I see you've made new friends», the blond said, nearly chuckling.

«Well, maybe he needed _good_ ones», Selina snapped back, causing both the cops to gape.

«What the hell was _that_?» Harvey exclaimed.

The little thief lifted her chin, crossed her arms, and looked resolutely away from Jim. At least she was neither pointing a gun at his face, nor delivering to some crime lord. He supposed he had to count his blessings.

«Come on, Selina», the younger cop asked. «What did I ever do to you?»

«Do I need to make a list? Cause I don't have all day.»

Harvey groaned.

«Ooookay, little miss Sunshine, drop this right now. I know you're at a sensitive age and you're all impressionable and shit, but I'm gonna tell you as it is, Fish was no role model, and I haven't commented on you copying her godawful wardrobe, nor on the whole armed criminal thing-»

«You haven't stopped whining about it.»

« _Nor on the whole armed criminal thing_ , but I'll be blunt, if you copy the 'utter bitch' act, someone will bash your skull in before the end of the day, and that someone will be me. Understood?»

She tried to stare him down to call his bluff, but the older man just stared right back, until she huffed and looked away. Jim was not altogether sure that he _was_ bluffing. The blond chuckled. For a second, he felt alive again, like there was a ground under his feet and air to breathe. Even if it was «only» a suspension… Not being a cop - not feeling like he had the right to be one, either - had left him blank. He was not sure of who he was without the badge, but he was certain he did not like that person much.

He could still see the way Barbara's face had lit up when he had raised his fist hit her, as if she had always known what lurked under his skin. He had felt like bashing that grin off her face, which was exactly what she had aimed for, and she had laughed as he stalked out of the room and out of Arkham, to puke his guts out right outside.

«You wanted to know where the intel came from?» Harvey asked, turning to his partner. «Maria Mercedes 'Fish' Mooney, who, on virtue on being herself, was unable to have one normal day in her life. The months she was out of Gotham, she spent in that underground prison, or so she told her 'family'.»

«There's no 'or so she told', she _did_ , that's how she got her weird eye. She pulled her own eye out when they threatened her to sell both to some patient…»

«Not a normal day in her life», Bullock mouthed.

«And the Dollmaker gave her the blue one instead.»

Jim froze.

«Dollmaker.»

«Yeah, Dollmaker. You two idiots caught the child snatchers, but you never went after their boss, right? Well, he kept snatching people, and I think he's doing it now.»

«Dollmaker.»

«Not that quick on the uptake, are you?»

«Will you please drop the aggressiveness and just explain what you know?»

«There was a strange kidnapping. Two boys, snatched by fake CPS workers? Like when that crazy lady and her friend came to grab kids from the streets?»

«The Winston children? Wouldn't that be too public an abduction? And the snatcher's M.O. was to grab as many victim as possible. This wouldn't fit…»

«Except it does», Harvey cut in. «I looked into it. I figured, since they took so many risks, the kids had to be special in some way. So I called in a few favors, got the boys' medical records. O negative, both of them. Universal donors.»

«Shit», Jim said. « _Shit_. We need to tell Sarah _right now_. The whole city should be looking after those boys.»

«One step ahead of you. I called her thirty minutes ago, told her to dig into the recent missing person's cases. And to be on the lookout for rich brats making miraculous recoveries», he added, which felt like a blow to the gut.

If organ traffickers had taken so many risks to get those specific kids, there was very likely a buyer lined up, _back when they had been taken_.

«O-type rich brats», the blond said. «Universal donors, but they can only receive transfusions from their own blood type. The same goes for transplants, I'm pretty sure.»

He sighed. The two brothers had probably been killed in the hours following their disappearance. They would have been very valuable, however. It was not out of the realm of possibilities for them to be kept alive so their organs could be harvested at separate times. Maybe they were extremely lucky and had only been relieved of the one kidney.

Another thought came to his mind.

«Why did you come to me with this?» he asked. «If you already got Essen to reopen the case?»

His phone rang. He cut the call short.

Bullock shrugged, uneasy, and exchanged a quick look with Selina.

«I need to find the Dollmaker», he mumbled. « _Preferably_ before anyone else does. Sarah can be trusted, but she'll have to put a lot of people on this and I don't know who they report to. I-»

Jim's phone rang again. He hung up again.

Selina and the detective's unexpected alliance suddenly made a lot of sense.

«You're looking for Fish Mooney», the blond said. «You think Dollmaker has her.»

They looked at each other again. Selina shrugged. Harvey sighed, annoyed, and looked resolutely to the side.

«Yeah. I mean, I know she got out alive and was captured by _someone_ », he explained.

«Oh for God's sake», Jim snapped.

His phone rang again. This time, he picked up, nearly shouting his greeting. There was a pause on the other side, then the last person the cop wanted to hear from replied.

«Jim, my friend! I'd like to invite you for tea.»

###

«You got me to play bodyguard to Carmine Falcone, in case you do not remember. You do not get to sulk about my trying to save my own crime lord's life.»

«I'm not _sulking_ », Jim replied as his friend parked his car in front of Cobblepot's recently «acquired» mansion. «I'm just surprised about how optimistic you are, seeing how you kept telling me that Barbara was probably already dead, when the Ogre kidnapped her. »

Harvey got out of the car and leaned down to look at Jim, who was still sitting in the passenger seat.

«First thing first, those two ladies? Not really cut from the same cloth. And about Barbara? I _was_ being optimistic», he finished, closing the car door.

The blond followed him out, sighing.

«I went to see her, you know?»

«Still?»

«Yeah. I think I might just stop.»

«Probably the best decision you could make», Harvey replied, staring at the mansion's doors. «Heh. I'd feel much better with a shotgun.»

Jim looked at the house, taking a deep breath. Cobblepot had let him know that his presence was mandatory, that he had some big news, and that he would be expecting him at five, _no excuses._ There had been something in his tone that made it clear that hanging up on him _again_ was not going to go over well. The detective had done just that at least five times that month, and there had been no backlash. It only now occurred to Jim that it was _not_ a good sign. He should have been concerned about that surprising forgivingness. In any case, tea was (probably) not going to kill him, and the news Cobblepot liked to share tended to be of the important variety.

Harvey had refused to let him go alone. «That scheming little jackass can't be trusted», he had said, which was the understatement of the century.

Jim breathed in.

The doors opened.

«James! I'm so glad you could make it», the Penguin greeted him. «I'm so glad to see you!»

He limped down the stairs, followed by two bodyguards, and grabbed Jim by the shoulders, and patting him on one. Then his face grew sour.

«Mister Bullock», he said in a dismissive tone.

«Penguin.»

Oswald's shot daggers at him, but quickly collected himself. He turned to the younger cop.

«I'm sorry, but your _friend_ will have to surrender his weapons. I was recently shot by one of Fish Mooney's former lovers. I do not care to repeat the experience.»

Harvey rolled his eyes and handed his gun to the bigger guard (Gabe, if Jim was not mistaken). It didn't matter much to him, as he had a spare, and two very good knives.

«All of his weapons», Cobblepot clarified.

It was Bullock's turn to shoot daggers, and he surrendered his second gun with a lot less good grace.

«Shall we go in?» the crime lord prompted with a cheerful smile.

They did. They walked past the Gatling gun that was now decorating the hall, and a vast collection of modern automatic weaponry, all of it clearly ready to fire, to end up in the living room. It had been redecorated. Jim did not comment. Harvey didn't have the same survival instincts. He took a long, had look at the new furniture.

«Did someone let a blind undertaker loose in here?»

«Please take a seat», Oswald said in a clipped voice. «Fred, let the kitchen know tea and pastries are expected.»

Jim sat, carefully, on the edge of new sofa. His partner just dropped down on it and leaned back, attempting to sink into the stone-hard cushions.

«Is there any particular reason to this invitation?» the blond asked as Oswald took a seat himself.

The creep perked up and smiled, barely containing his enthusiasm.

«Why, friendship, of course!»

«I'm sorry?»

«Friendship. _Our_ friendship. It's been a hard few months, and some things were said, and done, and I felt I had to - you know - do my part to smooth the terrain.»

Gordon blinked. A maid walked in and served them tea, to Harv's intense disgust. She had also brought croissants, cupcakes, and macarons.

«Jim», their host said. «You threatened me with a firearm, insulted me, and arrested me. It's fair to say our relationship is quite strained. I figured I'd take the high road and forgive you, however. Consider this a peace offering.»

«Croissants?»

Oswald clicked his tongue.

«No, silly! For the _actual_ peace offering, you'll have to wait…» - He peeked at the grandfather's clock. - «Four more minutes.»

«I'm sorry about the 'threatening you with a firearm' part. I assume you mean when I was trying to find Barbara Kean? It was not my best moment, it was a matter of life and death. That being said, I hope you don't expect me to apologize for arresting you. You were going to murder a man in cold blood.»

«Oh _please_. We're talking about Carmine Falcone. Do you take him for an altar boy? Because I can easily line up a collection of eastern European trollops who'd happily testify on how their passports were taken from them when they were put to work in his brothels. Among other things.»

«Hate to agree with the guy», Harvey chimed in, chewing on a macaron, «but he has a point.»

«He was the only one able to stop Gotham from falling into chaos», Jim replied. «I never for a second thought he was a good man.»

«On that first point, I beg to differ», Cobblepot snapped back, his polite facade cracking at the edges. «And might I point out you let him leave town? Which, sincerely, leads me to believe you thought his trade was friendship bracelets and girl scout cookies. I'm surprised you didn't drag him to some cell.»

The blond nearly reached for the knife attached to his hip - just to touch it, as suddenly felt very heavy on his belt - but stopped himself.

«If I had tried to keep him in Gotham, he would be a corpse by now. Probably with your helping hand.»

Oswald shook his head, smiling, and turned the TV on.

«There's no point trying to pick a fight, James. As I was saying, I'm trying to patch things up. It would be counterproductive to argue with you, wouldn't it?»

Jim peeked at the screen, vaguely noting the news channel's logo. Then he did a double-take.

A journalist was interviewing a very familiar man.

«It was a money grab. A shameless money grab», he was saying. «And I'm sorry for nearly ruining several careers with that godawful trick. The truth is I was never beaten into confessing the murder of my wife. I confessed because I- I… I had no idea if I had done it. I'm an addict, and I was not able to _remember_ what had happened that night. I couldn't even have told you if I'd seen her. But… It was _possible_. When I use… I don't know myself. I had hit her before. I had. She had called the cops on me because I was violent, so had our neighbors. And then she died and I could not remember a _thing_. So I thought… 'It has to be you, it can only be you'. I didn't even _know_ she was seeing someone else. If _I_ believed I had done it, and said I had, and signed my name on a piece of paper to swear I had… What were the cops supposed to think?»

Harvey stared at the television, stunned.

Jim leaned back in his seat, livid.

«What did you do to him?» he asked in a blank voice.

Cobblepot chuckled.

«Nothing! That's the beauty of it!»

The cop turned to him, studying his face, knowing most of what the criminal would say next would be lies.

« _Nothing_ », Oswald repeated. «I've learned my lesson from that unfortunate incident with Derek Delaware. No. I had my team of lawyers figure out how much that scammer would have extorted from the GCPD if it had settled on that lawsuit, and I offered him a few thousand dollars more to do _this_ », he explained, pointing at the screen. «It was actually a quite negligible sum. Pocket change, really. As it turns out, the man had no credibility whatsoever. No matter. Now, he gets to retire in Spain, and I believe you get to keep your job. How is that for a peace offering?»

###


	11. Chapter 11

«For someone with such a lucky strike, I don't feel like Jim really appreciates being allowed to return», Essen said.

Harvey leaned against the lab's exam table and unpacked his box of Chinese take-out. He handed the veggie noodles to Leslie and opened his garlic chicken.

Sarah was pissed. She had every right to be. Jimbo had been about as pleasant as waste shredder for most of the morning, and she had no idea why.

«He didn't have a lucky strike», the freshly reinstated detective announced. «Cobblepot intervened. Paid our guy, or so he says. He was reaaaal proud of it when he told Jim, too, and he'll lord it over him 'til the end of time.»

His captain stared at him, all of the implications of being helped out by the freshest Don in town sinking in.

Leslie cleared her throat.

«And I should be present for this conversation because…»

«Because it is lunchtime, and the cap' wanted to talk, and you wanted Chinese. I'm multitasking. And I figured Jim is too busy brooding and wouldn't have told you the Penguin thing at all. Whoever mentions the subject around him is liable to get punched in the face.»

The M.E. didn't deny not being told, which was as good as an admission.

«Why is Oswald Cobblepot so set on keeping Jim on the force?» Sarah exclaimed. «What does he have to gain? Is it just about when Jim saved his life?»

«Nah, it's not about that. The guy sees being helped as a divine right, and everything else as a mortal offense. He has something to gain alright. He's also collecting favors, so my bet is he's gonna wait for Jim to be right where he wants him to call them all in. Which might be in a few years, for all we know.»

Lee was stunned, and her eyes moved back and forth between Sarah and Harvey. The detective knew she had _some_ idea of Jim's mostly unwilling business relationship with Penguin, as she had heard all about the disaster at Falcone's warehouse, but Gordon wasn't a sharer. He'd never be. While she could beg, bully and barter the information out of him, she would never be sure he was totally frank. It had not seemed to matter a month before - she was _good_ with Jim and he was as wrapped around her finger as a guy like him could be - but now she seemed worried. She didn't ask any questions, however. She was the kind of woman who understood Jim's secrets were his to tell, and that prying would do no good.

«I want you to keep me update on _any_ move Cobblepot makes», Sarah announced. «Any time he contacts Jim, I want to be the first to know.»

Harvey nodded, chewing on a piece of chicken.

«I might not be kept in the loop. The creep is none too fond of me, on account of my past with Fish. But if I hear something, sure, I'll tell you. Now, about something else… Is there any progress on the vigilante who nailed our victim's boyfriend?»

«Not much. Everything he obtained for that investigation of his - the phone records, the bank records - he got using Jim's identity. We know he's male, in his thirties, and 'polite', from the bank employee who talked to him. But she wasn't able to give a decent description.»

«Is Alvarez still working on it?»

«On that, and the two open cases he was on when you were suspended, _and_ Delores Stephenson's case. You're taking that one back, by the way.»

Leslie had opened her own meal, and was attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible as she ate, intently _not_ listening.

Bullock acquiesced.

«Alright. I'll talk to Carlos. What about the Dollmaker case? Can we keep that one?»

«Can you get your informant to come forward?»

«Not a snowflake's chance in hell.»

The captain sighed.

«I've relayed everything you told me to the Missing Persons Unit, about the Winston boys, the island, the organ trafficking ring, but without a credible source, they are not willing to listen to me. They're investigating sex offenders right now.»

«So are we keeping it?»

«It depends. Is your informant _Fish Mooney_?»

Harvey closed his eyes and let the words roll over him. He had heard them before. They brought back memories.

He collected himself.

«If Fish was in Gotham, Penguin would have been drawn and quartered by now. No, she's gone.»

Sarah was silent for a moment or so, knowing full well what the words meant to him, but also that neither of them should acknowledge that.

«Alright. Let's be clear. You and Jim? You have a _lot_ of work to do before I trust you again and-»

«Come _on_! It was my fuck up. It was _my_ arrest. Don't go and blame the boy for it.»

« _And_ you're not getting any new cases, and most certainly none people expect to see solved.»

«Well that's some good use of two salaries.»

«Let me finish. I have valid reason not to trust either of you right now. You can try to cover for Jim, but in the state he's in, he has _not_ been doing a good job, and if he had not _made_ you handle that case alone, things might have turned out differently.»

Lee cleared her throat as loudly as humanly possible. Essen paused.

«I've made a list of six cases that have gone cold in the last year. You'll be working on that, Stephenson's case, and _yes_ , the Dollmaker, until you find something convincing enough to get the MPU's interest. Now, those cases are hard to crack, and they are as dark and twisted as Gotham gets, and if someone can solve them, it's you and Jim. So I suggest you do just that and we'll see where that gets you. Is that alright with you?»

«It's something», Harvey said.

He was furious, but he knew he had no right to complain. He'd been a failure for years, within limits, but Sarah had never been that blindsided by his blunders before. Never on a case that simple. Never with someone rubbing it like their vigilante had.

She nodded and left. Leslie cleared her throat again, this time choking on her food.

«I really don't think I was supposed to hear that», she murmured.

Harvey shrugged.

«I dragged her here to be sure no one _else_ would listen in», he said. «Sorry about that. I don't trust half of the unit with some of the things that were said.»

«… Cobblepot?» the M.E. tried.

«How much do you know about organ transplants?»

###

Oswald watched the security feed, intently.

Miriam's letter had brought Gillian running in. The commissioner was playing checkers with the girl, a ritual of theirs, and she was winning. She thought he let her win. Oswald had seen her play, so he knew better. She had that particular skill that only came with not merely practice, but unrelenting, continual training. Like - say - playing the same game against yourself for two decades, to be ready for that one time in a month you got to try your skills against someone else.

It was Oswald's opinion that Miriam was doing _much_ better at the mansion than in the attic Loeb had locked her in, and that her father's visits were vastly undesirable.

«She's very good at that», Victor said from his back, making his employer jump.

He turned to the door.

«Will you _stop_ sneaking up on people like that? It is unsettling.»

Zsasz smiled - which was not merely unsettling, but downright scary - and pointed at the screen.

«She beats everyone at this. She's a predator», he commented.

«I thought we discussed your infatuation with young Miriam and how it was not to manifest, ever.»

The hitman rolled his eyes.

«You see things that aren't there. I _like_ her. She's. Crazy. But I have no interest in… _That_ », he finished with a grimace.

Oswald studied his face, frowning. Truth to be told, Victor's taste for torture might have bordered on the sexual, but it was likely the only form of «gratification» he indulged in or cared for. He did not touch his sidekicks. He shrugged at the idea, anyway, and had looked nonplussed the one time Oswald had questioned him on that matter.

The crime lord dropped the topic and turned to the screen again.

«How much for Gillian Loeb?» he asked.

Zsasz joined him, leaning down to take a better look at the footage.

«It depends. Does he have to vanish? Or do I leave a bloody mess? Public execution or something quieter?»

The fact that he was listing options meant that he not only considered the mission as feasible, but also as affordable. No «two million dollars» quote.

But Oswald had Gillian in the palm of his hand, and nobody to put in his place. Not yet, anyway.

«It was merely a question.»

«Ah.»

They watched the screen in silence for a moment, then Zsasz turned to Oswald.

«I thought you said you would crush his spirit», he said. «To get him under your thumb. Did you chiiicken out, chicken?»

Cobblepot huffed.

«Seriously, Victor, did you think that was my move?»

The assassin tilted his head to the side.

«I was getting him in the _right place_ », the crime lord explained. «Seriously. My _move_ is planned for next week, Thursday, at two in the afternoon.»

###

Sabrina had lost track of the days.

She would wake up and go for a jog, and maybe chat with Sophie if she was out. Then she would go home, shower, and weep. The box of tampons next to the toilet had gone unused, and she _never_ looked that way - never - so she would not start hyperventilating.

In the morning, she watched movies, one by day, in order. «When Harry met Sally», then «Sleepless in Seattle», then «French Kiss», then «While you were sleeping», and sometimes «The wedding singer». In the afternoon, she slept. In the evening, she had dates. She knew David had been ordered to propose, because he had drawn a ring in the palm of her hand to warn her. He had not tried yet - maybe he had been told to wait for the right moment? - but he would. They walked together, or sat on plastic grass to watch a night sky that was not there, counting stars that did not exist. The Screen gave fairly specific orders. After the dates, they went home - to her place, or his - and had sex. Then she showered and rubbed herself so raw that she had scabs and bruises all over. The scratches that had healed had left brownish stains on her skin.

She had gotten so used to her necklace's beeping that she did not hear it anymore. David once had to shake her into noticing.

She found great comfort in David. At night, once the lights were out and she was fairly certain the cameras were useless, she snuggled against him, and kissed him, and he let her. It was the one thing they could choose for themselves, in the dark, hidden under the covers, when Mrs. Valentine could not watch them.

The first time Sabrina had reached between his legs, he'd been shell-shocked, and she'd known he was staring at her in disbelief, even though neither of them could see the other. Then understanding had dawned, and he had rolled onto her. It had been rough, and she had been sore the next day, but it had to be quick and silent so it had to be hard, and it was still the _only_ thing they could choose for themselves.

He was usually gone in the morning.

Then, one «While you were sleeping» day, she awoke to mild discomfort, sat up, an felt wetness on the sheets. David stirred next to her, and she turned on the lights.

In a normal context, she would have been mortified, and rushed to the bathroom, and stolen the stained sheets, and then profusely apologized to Matthew (who would have said «hey, a little blood ain't gonna make me faint»). She was not in a normal context, however, so she just looked down and started shaking. She must have looked very bad, because David immediately sat up and grabbed her shoulder.

Her teeth were chattering.

«Sabrina, Sabrina, calm down, calm down, it's nothing», he tried. «Shh, shh, come here.»

She let him pull her close, and tried to take a deep breath, but she only managed a few shaky gasps.

«It's nothing», he repeated. «I'm here. It'll be alright. Come on, Sabrina, _please?_ »

«I'm s-sorry», she stammered. «I-I-I-I'm trying. I-»

He rocked her, rubbing her back, clearly panicking himself. She sobbed.

«I'm sorry», she repeated, this time in a clearer voice. She pulled back. «I'll stop, I-I-I'll stop. I don't even k-know why I'm cr-»

###


	12. Chapter 12

When Sophie heard the explosion, her first thought was «not again». Then she dropped her book and jumped out of bed, just as Nate did, and she ran outside.

If the whiny little idiot had gotten David killed, there would be hell to pay. David was an all-around good guy, and he took way too many risks to protect the sniveling brats Mrs. Valentine paired him with.

The brunette stood by the door and looked around, trying to figure out if the noise had come from David's house or Sabrina's. There were lights in the latest, so she headed that way, but Nate grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back.

«Stay with Shawn», he ordered. «Make sure he does not get out of his room.»

Sophie snatched her arm away and nodded, walking back inside. They were not expected to act blissfully in love right after executions: there was usually a mess to deal with, and Mrs. Valentine had other things on her mind. Nate, being the oldest tenant, was supposed to deal with the bodies and the cleanup. Everyone else was more or less forgotten.

She went to check on Shawn, who was sleeping soundly, then left the room and locked him in. There was no screaming, and she was starting to wonder if both David and Sabrina had been killed.

«Mrs. Valentine?» she called, waving at one of the cameras. «Could we get the Screen to show Shawn's room, so I can go and help Nate out?»

She peeked through the window and, sure enough, the screen at the end of the street turned on, showing the boy's bed. Sophie ran to number four, and slipped in. She heard some low, continuous moaning from the bedroom. David's voice, covered by a litany of comforting words from Nate. She braced herself and walked into the room.

She promptly took a step back.

«Shit», she murmured.

It was a disaster scene. Sabrina's corpse was on the bed, and walls, and everything else. Delores' death had not been pretty, and neither had Haruto's, but both had taken place outside. The splatter didn't look nearly as bad in an open space. And no one had been standing as close as David. He was curled into a ball in a corner of the room, naked, covered in blood and flesh. Nate was trying to get him to move and leave the room, but it was clear that wouldn't be happening. The man was in a whole new world inside his head and would not be coming back for a while. She joined them, and her husband turned to her.

«Help me», he mouthed, grabbing one of David's arms and pulling him up.

Sophie did, and they managed to drag the other captive outside, where they sat him on the plastic grass. She went back inside to grab a fleece blanket from the sofa, and came back to wrap him in it. He was rocking back and forth, silently now, save for his chattering teeth.

Nate wiped his own forehead with a bloody hand. He looked quizzically at her - because she was not with Shawn and only Shawn mattered - so she pointed the screen, and he relaxed a bit. He took her hand and started writing in her palm, in quick strokes of the thumb. Two years of this being your _only_ unmonitored method of communication would make you fluent in reading the letters on your skin.

«K-E-E-P D-A-V-I-D Q-U-I-E-T O-R S-H-E L-L K-I-L-L H-I-M T-O-O», he spelled.

Then he walked back into Sabrina's house and closed the door.

Sophie crouched next to David and wiped his face with a corner of the blanket. Some of the blood was his. His face and torso were cut all over - shrapnel wounds - and she hoped the damage to his face wouldn't make him damaged goods. A male lead had to be handsome. None of the cuts looked _that_ deep, but she did not want to know what the shrapnel had been. She pushed him and pulled him and coaxed him into his own house, then pushed him under the shower and tried to clean the mess.

###

«It's Thursday», Victor said.

Oswald took a deep breath, as he would need the patience of a saint, and looked to the heavens.

«Is it?» he replied in his best uninterested voice.

«It is!» Miriam confirmed, lining pearls on a string.

She had been provided with a box of three-thousands pearl finish two millimeter beads, and three bucketfuls of larger beads - faceted crystal beads, pearls, fake gemstones, animal themed beads - and an unlimited supply of thread. She loved them. Oswald kept finding them everywhere (including in his food), but he liked that better than bloody feathers. And it made the girl happy.

«I know it is. What of it?»

«Nothing happened yet.»

Oswald huffed.

«I swear, Victor, you're the least patient man I have ever met.»

###

«I want you to know, Arnold, that it was a pleasure working with you», Butch said, removing the keys from the ignition. «I mean, you did a fine job. And you seem like a nice guy, if a bit on the silent side.»

Flass looked at him and tried to free himself from his seatbelt. Butch detached it.

«You know, I'd like to apologize», he continued. «I always thought you were kind of a douchebag, what with the drug deals and general crookedness. I thought I'd met gangsters with more integrity than you did. What can I say? We work on separate sides of the fence - usually - and I shouldn't have listened to rumors. I should have gotten to know you a little better.»

He opened the door and got out of the van, dragging Arnold in front of the wheel, attaching the _other_ seatbelt.

«Not that I'll have the opportunity now, of course», the mobster commented, «but it's a crying shame.»

The cop banged his feet against the floor and shook his head. Butch closed the door, took a few step back, and shot him in the face. Then he shot the van twice, to make it all more convincing. Then he opened the door again, untied Arnold, got his arm out from under the seatbelt, and put a gun into his hand.

It would do.

###

Raiding a mental institution with masks and automatic guns was ill advised. Raiding an institution for the _criminally insane_ was exponentially worse.

By the time the three armed men opened Barbara's cell door, one of them had been stabbed, the screaming and wailing of the inmates had been going on for ten minutes, and the blonde had stopped counting the gunshots. The injured man just leaned against the door frame, panting. One of his accomplices just looked back to the corridor, a clear «what kind of nut house have I walked in?» expression on his face, that turned to «oh, _right_ » very quickly. The third one pointed his Uzi at Barbara.

«Come with us.»

She was a heiress, a killer, and a (slightly fallen for grace) member of the high society, yet she knew there was only one question to ask.

«What has Jim done this time?»

There was a pause. The kidnappers snapped out of their confusion quickly, however, and she was grabbed by the elbow and pulled outside.

«I'll follow, I'll follow» she said when her arm was twisted. «No need to be brutal.»

There was less grabbing and twisting after that, but mostly because the guards had rallied and tried to stop her abductor's progression. They were gunned down, and that was the end of it. Then she was hurried outside, the limping, bleeding thug closing the march.

«You're not afraid?», he asked between pants, looking both in pain and nonplussed, as they made their way to the grids.

«Me? Nooo», she replied. «I'm a frequent flier. This is my fourth hostage situation? Fifth? I lost track.»

The man gaped. She extended her arm so he could lean on her, seeing how he was growing pale with blood loss. And then he was shot in the throat, and went down gurgling. She looked down at her blood-splattered uniform and hissed. It was on her _face_ , too. It took a moment for the penny to drop in. Shooting situation. She dropped to the ground and waited for the shooting to stop, watching as her two remaining kidnappers fell.

Now, not only did she wear an ugly, itchy, bloodstained asylum uniform, she was also covered in grime.

A hand helped her up.

«Hurry», the man said. «There might be others, I'll get you to safety.»

She turned and found herself face to face with Butch Gilzean.

«Oh, hey! It's been a while!» she greeted him. «How are you doing?»

She remembered him well, mostly from that home invasion that had given her PTSD. But she didn't hold a grudge. Now that she had participated in a home invasion of her own, she realized he had been an absolute joke. He had not even stabbed her once.

He blinked.

«Uh. Now is, uh, not the time. Please, run», he told her, pushing her through the gates.

They ran past a van with shattered windows, and found a car waiting for them. Barbara entered it without protest, and hid on the backseat, under a grey blanket, as Gilzean ordered her to. The man took the wheel and sped away as fast as the car could go.

«I'm confused», Barbara asked from under her blanket. «Is this an abduction or a rescue? Not that I mind either way.»

«Rescue.»

«Alright. Who am I being rescued from, then?»

«Lady, would you mind being silent while I try to save both our lives? Please?»

She rolled her eyes and waited until he started driving at a normal pace again, which took several minutes.

«Can I talk _now_?» she asked.

«No?»

«Is it safe?»

The criminal sighed.

«I guess is it. You can come out.»

She dropped the blanket, sat up, and leaned forward, propping her chin on the driver's seat shoulder.

«From whom am I being saved?»

«Iiiiiiit's kind of a long story.»

«I'm a great listener.»

«Does the name 'Flass' ring a bell?»

«The narcotics cop James arrested for murder, and who got out a few weeks later?»

«I see you're well informed. Makes the story a lot less long, I suppose. He had a chip on his shoulder.»

«And it was big as a boulder?»

«What?»

«Sincerely, does anyone have a musical culture anymore?»

Gilzean forgot to look at the road for a second, turning to her in confusion.

«I'm sorry, _what_?»

He nearly took out a pedestrian and had to swerve.

«Just forget it», Barbara sighed. «So. I don't suppose Jim sent you.»

«Uh, ah, not to be rude or anything, but would you mind waiting for my boss to explain it all? I'm just hired muscle and, in case you didn't notice, I'm _driving_.»

«No need to get testy, I'm just curious.»

«You know, I remembered you a lot more silent.»

«Yes, and I remember when you _couldn_ _'t stop talking_. People change! Surprise!»

He didn't answer that, and pretended to focus on the road. She moved back and looked out the window for a few minutes, then leaned forward again, putting her chin on the left shoulder of the driver's seat.

«You know, I _have_ », she announced.

«I'm sorry but could you start making _sense_?»

«When you held me hostage in my apartment. You asked me a question.»

«I-I… Christ, miss, have you ever been told there's something _off_ with you? No offense.»

«None taken. And yes, as it turns out. By my mother, every time she said something to me, for a start. Then by the very nice people at Arkham.»

«Right. What was your point?»

«You asked me if I had ever 'been' with a criminal. And I _have_. And I _did_ find it a turn-on», she explained, wrapping an arm around him and pushing her hand between the buttons of his shirt.

Her fingers met more scar tissue than they did skin. Gilzean tried to jump away.

The car went spinning.

###

«Jim will find me», Leslie said as the torturer prepared his instruments. «He will.»

There was a cling as a scalpel was dropped on a metal tray, and the man chuckled.

«Not to burst your bubble, lady, but the guy doesn't have a stellar track record. Is he gonna find you like when he found that Kean gal? 'Cause I hear she's having a field day in Arkham Asylum.»

That elicited a burst of laughter from the four armed men who had brought Lee in. They had grabbed her from the GCPD's parking lot, pulling her into a van parked next to her car before she could even understand what was going on. She had taken a few blows when she had tried to escape: hard enough to for her nose to bleed but not to break, and for her legs to bruise. Nothing serious, and nothing in comparison of what the torturer had planned for her. And explained. In excruciating detail.

She squirmed on her seat, but the restraints were tight, both around her body and her wrists.

«You know, the Ogre had a reputation. All those girls he abducted. The press said a loooot of things about that guy», the butcher taunted, scratching her cheek with a dagger.

«I'm sure they did», Leslie replied in a collected tone, trying not to show fear.

The thug slapped her. Her nose started bleeding again.

«Jim will find me», she said again.

Or someone. There were security cameras in that parking lot. Someone was bound to notice something. Her car was still there, too.

Still, she was terrified, and she could hear Barbara's voice, straight from that «therapy session», telling her everything she had _not_ wanted to know about Jason Lennon, and his tools, and everything he had done. And how he had hit her when _she_ had told _him_ Jim would find her.

«I mean, he eventually _did_ », Barbara had told her later that night, when she had regained consciousness after that murder attempt. «But, really, he was a bit late. It was my _second_ date with Jason, you know? I'd brought him home the night before, and he told me he would have killed me back then if I had not been _me_.»

Not a stellar track record.

 _Don_ _'t ever think that_.

«Now, let's clear a misconception», the torturer said, waving pliers. «Gordon _is_ too late. Even if he arrives now, he will be too late. I like to get little details like that out of the way quickly.»

To make his point, he took her hand, and a distal phalanx. She did not hear her own scream, but her throat tasted like blood. The man poured acid in a bucket, then waited for her to calm down. When she did, her screams turning into sobs and keening, he dropped the amputated finger tip into the acid.

And it would always be too late. There would be no going back, no hope for reattachment, and everything would be different from that moment on.

She heard herself screaming again.

«Shall we continue?» the criminal asked, trading the pliers for a scalpel.

The doors slammed open and everyone started shouting. It was all very fast, especially in Leslie's state, faint with blood loss and hyperventilating. In a second or so, her kidnappers were dead, being on the wrong side of assault riffles.

A man limped to her.

«Oh, that's _disgraceful_ », he said, inspecting her hand. «What kind of _monster_ would do this? _Victor!_ Tend to that wound, will you?»

Leslie raised her head, trying to slow her breathing. She did not succeed, nor did she manage to get a word out. Just sobs. Another man joined them, and examined her injury, then went to gather supplies from the medical cabinet a few steps away.

«I'm so sorry we arrived so late, Miss Thompkins. But you're safe now. You're safe. We'll get you out of here», the first man said.

Cobblepot, she thought. Oswald Cobblepot. Then Victor came back with a syringe and offered an injection of painkillers. The name and dosage sounded about right. She did not think much after that.

###


	13. Chapter 13

Harvey went home with a fresh bottle of whiskey and a migraine. He opened the door, took a deep «God grant me patience» sigh, and dropped into his sofa. Then he turned to the girl sitting next to him in said sofa.

«What, pray tell, are you doing here?»

«I came to see if you had new leads on the Dollmaker», Kyle replied, pointing the zapper at the TV and flipping channels.

He groaned. It had been a long day. It had been a long, long day. Sarah was none too pleasant, _Jim_ was none too pleasant. Hell, even Nygma was none too pleasant. Not that he ever was, but it was a different kind of unpleasantness, recently, more on the brooding, snappish side. He wasn't even asking riddles, and when he was, he stopped himself halfway and cut the conversation short. Which made it very hard to extract information from the guy. After years praying for him to shut up… Well, «careful what you wish for», they said. They were right.

«I already have _one_ boss riding my ass», the cop snapped. «I don't need two.»

The girl shrugged and offered him some of his own chocolate cookies, taken from his own cupboard.

«I'm still asking», she said.

He sighed, grabbed the remote, and flipped channels.

«Jack shit on the Dollmaker. You can leave now.»

If some children had benefited from the Winston boys' organs, either it was not in Gotham, either their parents had kept the secret well. Harvey was still looking, but obtaining the medical records of every O negative underage patient on the continent wasn't going to be doable.

What he had discovered, though, was that Delores Stephenson was not the first Gothamite to have been killed by some device around her neck. _That_ was the one interesting bit of trivia Nygma had shared that afternoon, before he'd lost it and stalked back to the morgue or wherever he usually dwelled. Unidentified Asian male, found cut to pieces in a landfill, with shrapnel wounds indicating an explosion under the throat. That was the extent of the information Nygma had given them, and trying to get the case file out of the records had proved difficult. Miss Kringle was on vacation and the intern filling in was not very good at navigating «rusematic» indexes. The intern had promised to find the files in the next twenty-four hours, fingers crossed. Until the boy managed, Jim and Harvey couldn't be sure the two murders were related.

The brat took a cookie and started munching on it, looking at the TV.

«Do I need to carry you out?» Harvey asked.

«Have you looked into miraculous recoveries? People changing eye colors?»

«I'll take that as a yes», the cop replied, standing.

He scooped her up, which she had not expected at all, because it took her nearly five seconds to start trashing and whacking his head. He tried to keep his face out of the way of her fists and made his way to the door. Then she scratched his cheek and he dropped her.

«Are you _crazy_?» they shouted in unison.

She got up in a swift motion. He wiped his cheek. Sure enough, the little bitch had drawn blood, which made him angry, and it reminded him of Fish, which made him near ballistic.

«That's it, get the fuck out, don't _ever_ come back, or you're going back to Juvie», he snapped, shoving her out.

She backed away easily enough - the girl had enough instinct to know when there was actual danger - but froze right under the door. Harvey raised a hand. He wouldn't have hit her (not too hard), but she didn't know that.

«I said GET-»

«Wait!»

She pointed to the the TV, eyes wide.

He turned. Barbara Kean's photo was taking half the screen. On the other, some news anchor broke the news of an attack on Arkham Asylum.

###

Jim dropped his keys on the sideboard as he entered Leslie's apartment. The day had been long, very long. He'd spent it on the phone, calling Delores Stephenson's family, her friends, and a few dozen factories, twice as many chemicals sellers, and two explosives experts. Nothing on that side. They were waiting for Thomas, the intern in charge of the records annex, to unearth files on a seemingly similar murder, in the hope they could get more information that way. On the whole, Jim had spent his day desperately trying to make some progress, with no result whatsoever.

«Lee?» he called, as she should have been home.

He had not seen her leave the precinct, but her car was gone. Then again, the fridge was empty - as he noticed as he served himself some orange juice - so she was probably getting groceries.

He filled a pan with water, put it on the stove, and got a box of spaghetti from the cupboard. He had to open every single kitchen cabinet to locate some tomato sauce, but he eventually found a pot right behind the boxes of cereal (which was maybe a sign that Leslie was not that fond of tomato sauce). He reconsidered the spaghettis and grabbed his phone, so he could ask her her opinion on the evening's meal.

That was when he discovered that he had missed seven calls during his drive from the precinct to the apartment, all of them from Oswald Cobblepot.

###

Sophie climbed the stairs to the mansion and stopped a few feet away from the metal door that separated their prison from the outside world. There was a green light above it, so it was unlocked, but walking up to it was always a scary prospect. She took a step forward. Her necklace did not start beeping, so she took the three remaining ones. She closed her eyes. She breathed in. She opened the door. Fresh air brushed her skin.

 _Wind_.

 _Wind!_

It had been months since she had last been upstairs. The last time, she had been lucky enough to be called upstairs during the day. She had seen actual _sunlight_. She still dreamed of that pinkish, orange glow on her eyelids. Shawn, who had not known the the air could move and that the sky could be blue, had wailed for hours, and Nate had tried to make him understand the concept of open spaces, in vain. The boy had to be taken downstairs again.

Wind. Wind, and moonlight. The normal, grayish light of a real night sky, without the blue hue of the floodlights.

But she was not really _outside_ , of course. This was only the peristylium, a closed in garden, with walls and armored door on every side. All of doors of the mansion, up to the exit, were equipped with a proximity sensor that would activate Sophie's necklace if she tried to leave. Shawn's mother had wanted to prove it was all a bluff, and Nate had ended up _remarrying_. Becky had been a reckless idiot and Sophie _loathed_ her. Sophie would have been enjoying sunlight until the end of her days if Becky had not thrown caution to the winds.

Three of the peristylium's doors were locked, but the fourth was lit green, and the brunette went through it, entering a library filled with Victorian furniture and Greek statues. She followed the open doors, passing through a similarly decorated hallway, to finally arrive in Mrs. Valentine's living room. The old bitch was watching TV, back turned to the door, sitting on her white, spotless Victorian lounge made of golden wood and satin cushions. She drank from an antique tea set, on a silver plater, on a low table covered with a lace tablecloth. Her permed, short grey hair was slightly on the violet side, and thinning.

Sophie was tempted to cross the few steps that separated her from Valentine and to throw herself at her throat. Sure, the proximity sensor the woman carried would make her necklace go off after a few steps, but if the brunette was quick enough, maybe the bomb would blow _both_ of their heads off.

Nate was standing by the door, soaked in blood, and was talking to the cunt.

«He might need some time. He… It shocked him. It's always hard at the beginning. And it's the second time, too. He was fragile.»

«I don't know why it is so hard to find him a good match», Mrs. Valentine replied in that bleating voice of her's. «He's so handsome, so charming. You cannot fault him on his behavior at all: he's as perfect as they come. And yet…»

«I really would advise giving him a few weeks», Nate said. «A month or two, maybe.»

«I will, I will. I didn't intend for him to get so attached. You could see the girl was a terrible match, but she hadn't been… _Indisposed_. You know I wouldn't harm an unborn child», Valentine explained to a Nate who knew that very well. «Thankfully, that cleared up. Sophie, how is David?»

«Sleeping, Mrs. Valentine. I gave him some pills. I figured resting would do him good.»

Passing out was the only relief the poor guy could hope for, so the brunette had sacrificed the four sleeping pills she had left, and a glass of vodka to help them go down. David had been shaking so hard she had feared the drugs would not work. She had spent half an hour hugging him and rocking him until he fell asleep. Then she had locked the door to Shawn's room, since the stupid kid couldn't be brought upstairs without having a panic attack of his own, and she could not trust David around him.

«That's good», the old hag commented. «Very good. Please stay with him today. Nate?»

«Yes, Mrs. Valentine?»

«Go change, then we'll take the… Package downtown.»

He looked down, and Sophie followed his eyes to a large suitcase. Her stomach lurched.

«Very well, Mrs. Valentine», he replied, taking his wife's wrist to pull her out of the living room.

They walked back to the peristylium. Nate's breathing grew wheezy and quick, but his face remained perfectly blank. Still, when he opened the door to the basement, he looked down at his bloody hands, and the brown grime under his fingernails, and he nearly lost it. Sophie saw his eyes go wet, and dug her nails into his arm so he would snap out of it.

###

Oswald paced in his living room.

The surgeon he had called in was done suturing Thompkins' finger - a nice, clean job, that would prevent the woman from losing more than that fingertip - and was packing his tools, giving his patient a list of instructions she probably did not need. She was mostly lucid now, but still very subdued. She kept looking down at her hand and sobbing, however. That was irritating. It was only the one phalanx, and from the pinky, at that. Oswald's _leg_ was basically unusable, but did your hear him complain?

«They should be here by now», he whispered to Victor, who was standing by the door. «Any word?»

The hitman shook his head. Oswald groaned and paced some more.

Jim had called him back (in response the seven calls Oswald had made sure to time with the cop's drive home from work, all of them too short to let a ringtone go past its first note), and was on his way. He wouldn't arrive easily. Seeing how Gilzean was AWOL, the crime lord had called some men, who had received the order to spill a delivery's truck worth of wine bottles on Pioneer's bridge. There would be no driving from Thompkins' apartment to the mansion for two solid hours.

Once the surgeon was gone, Cobblepot returned to the woman, who was laying in his new sofa and had managed to stain it with that bloody hand of hers, and he put on his softest smile.

«I don't know why Jim has not arrived yet, but he should be here any moment now. Is there anything you need?»

«I-I… I'm fine, thank you», she murmured.

She tried not to look down to her hand, and failed.

«I'm so very sorry we didn't arrive sooner», Oswald said, because while he was talking, he could not hear her sob. «I so deeply regret that short delay. W-»

He jumped back at the noise of screeching tires, coming from the park. He hoped it was not Jim, not before Kean was secured. But the next thing he heard was Gilzean's voice.

«INSIDE», the thug was screaming. «GET. INSIDE.»

A car door slammed. Oswald made his way to the window and watched as his man, frayed and bloody, pushed a laughing Barbara Kean into the mansion. A few moments later, the door opened on Butch, who dragged the blonde inside. She was dirty, covered in blood, but unharmed. The same could not be said of Butch, who had clearly had to tend to a nosebleed.

«WHERE WERE YOU?» his boss screamed. «We've been worried sick!»

Gilzean forgot his usual terrified subservience, throwing Kean forward. Leslie moved back on the sofa. Barbara chuckled.

«We crashed the car», Gilzean said. «I had to buy another. Which would have gone a _thousand_ times better if the lady had not started screaming that I was abducting her to rape her.»

«Hey! For all I knew, that was true. I seem to recall that the first time we met, you threatened me with just that.»

«Oh come _on_ , that was just banter. It's part of the job, too. Grab the hostage, scare her a little, wait for the target…»

He turned to Oswald, saw that the younger man was going livid with rage, and quickly amended his words.

«Obviously, I'm not in this line of business anymore, Miss Kean. Now, I work for a friend.»

«So am I finally going to be briefed on the whole thing?» the blonde piped back. «Maybe by you, Mister Cobblepot?»

The crime lord composed himself.

«Of course, Miss. Please take a seat.»

She took a seat, sitting with her back straight and her chin up and her hands on her knees like a schoolgirl.

«It came to my attention today that an old enemy of Jim Gordon - a man called Arnold Flass», Oswald explained, looking to Butch to make sure that said Arnold Flass would not be back to present his own version of the story, «was recruiting some men to exact revenge on James, who had arrested him for murder a few months ago. Now, as you maybe know, Arnold Flass is a cop, which left me with very limited options. I knew he had something planned for today, but… I could hardly contact the authorities, could I? So I took it upon myself to send some of my men to rescue the two of you. I'm sorry the circumst-»

«Okay», Kean cut in, bouncing out of her chair.

She started walking around the room, looking at the furniture and decoration. She had left her sandals under the seat.

«So let me get this straight», she asked, stopping in front of a painting. «All of this, the whole rescue, is to impress Jim?»

«I beg your pardon?»

The blonde started walking in another direction, now looking at Oswald.

«Its a lot of effort for two strangers, if you have nothing to gain. So I figure you gain something from impressing Jim. Don't you?»

He did his best not to frown nor purse his lips.

«You are mistaken. James is a dear friend of mine who - as you very well know - once saved my life. It's only my duty to return the favor by protecting the people he loves.»

Barbara stopped dead in her tracks, next to Thompkins's seat. The doctor slid to the opposite end of the sofa.

«Love?» the blonde asked, looking stunned.

«Well, of c-»

«Oh, no, no, you poor man, you don't understand Jim at all, do you?»

By that point, Oswald was confused, the guards were confused, and Gilzean was just leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.

«Jim does not love anyone», Kean continued, in a nice, warm voice, playing with a necklace she was not actually wearing, out of habit. «It's not his fault! He tries very hard. He's a good man. But he just does not _know_ how to love. It's not in him.»

Cobblepot stared at her.

«And since Jim does not know how to love, he does not know how to _protect_ people. He knows how to fight for them, however. He'll do that. He won't stop until he _wins_.»

Her fingers kept searching for something on her throat, patting up and down and circling.

«Now, of course, that's bad news for you, because after you harm us, Jim won't rest until he sees you dead. I hope you know that.»

«I have no intention to harm eit-»

She smiled, pulled a knife out of her cleavage, whirled, and slashed Leslie Thompkin's throat.

###


	14. Chapter 14

Fish slipped out of bed, fighting the overwhelming pain that coursed trough her body at that.

She had to free herself from dozen of cables and needles, but at least she was no longer attached to the bed frame, unlike the previous days. She knew where she was - she felt the sutures everywhere - but she did not know _what_ she was yet. She needed light. She had to know. The heartbeat monitor next to her bed was giving a faint glow. She put her hands in front of its screen, an heaved. Oh, she couldn't make out a single detail, but the shape she saw was gray and not black. Fish moved away, shivering, her legs so painful she got cold sweats and nausea. She grabbed a table - too stupidly low - and a chair - just a few inches too small too. Then she followed the walls, that were all covered with mirrors - until she found a switch.

She closed her eyes and turned the lights on.

She knew it was not going to be pretty. What Dulmacher had done to his previous manager had been horrendous enough, and it had been a punishment for a minor mistake. The man had not escaped the island with several valuable prisoners, sacrificing several others in the process. He has not been the Dollmaker's personal enemy.

It was not going to be pretty.

 _Well, don_ _'t stand here whining a child, it's not going to make it better._

She opened her eyes. Blue and brown irises looked back at her, still alien and mismatched. Both were bruised violet and circled with yellowish skin that grew pinker as she looked down to her cheek, and lips, and chin. Pale, white skin, patched together by thin pink lines sutured with transparent thread, from her nostrils to her lips, along the cheekbones. She took in the details first, the scars, the cuts, the bruises, the _bloody skin color change_ , the swollen flesh.

 _He erased me, he erased me, he erased- STOP IT._

It was change. She could adapt. It was more extreme - _erasedmeerasedme_ \- than what she was used to deal with, but she could power through this. _Thisissomeoneelsesface._ She could make use of the change. She could. She forced herself to calm down, controlling her breathing.

Yes, yes, it was some dead woman's face. And so what? Freaking out over it would not bring her back to life.

The full, sulky lips would work. The full cheeks would make her look younger. It was hard to say with the sutured wounds and the swollen flesh, but the face was possibly much younger than Fish's actual age. The eyebrows were…

She took in the whole face, and jumped back.

A beautiful oval face with thick, sulky lips, and heavy eyelids over almond eyes, _LizaLizaLizaLiza_.

Fish covered the face with her hands (both a pinkish shade of white with faint scars on the sides of the fingers, where the skin had been sewn like the top and bottom of a glove). She didn't scream, she was not about to scream, she wouldn't scream.

The door opened.

«I'm sorry. The likeness is not perfect. It was hard enough to work from photographs, but finding a lookalike proved difficult», Dulmacher said.

Fish could hear his smirking.

She breathed in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out.

 _Liza_. Liza, sparkling blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick Liza, with the blank and empty look from one who had gone past desperate and settled into nothingness. Blonde, elegant, quiet Liza with a silk shawl around her head. Liza who would have done _anything_ because she had _nothing_ , and who had found _something_ at Carmine's side, a hint of herself. Before he had killed her.

Fish's jailer joined her, looking at her in the mirror.

«When I said I'd bring you back from the dead if I had to, I did not suspected I was being literal. That gunshot wound _did_ kill you. You might have lasted a bit longer without that fight, but the blood loss was extreme. I'm surprised you even made it out of the water.»

He took a step back, slipping behind her, and pulled her - the - hands away from her - the - face.

«How do you like being your worst nightmare, Miss Mooney? Arms and legs that aren't yours… Not that there is _anything_ left of you», he said, pulling her hospital gown down.

She was a patchwork. Long white legs, changing tones at the knees, and definitely much longer than Fish's had been. That explained how low the table and chair had seemed. Her body was a patchwork of whites and yellows, connected by glaring red lines, all of it bruised and raw.

«You seemed to have such a high opinion of yourself», the maniac said. «I figured, how best to punish you than by taking 'yourself' away?»

Herself was not gone. She was still right there, a burning ball of rage in the middle of her chest.

«Why _Liza_?» she asked.

«I looked into you. Followed you back to Gotham, where I learned everything there was to know about Maria Mercedes Mooney, fallen Mafia queen. How she had sent her mistress to spy on Carmine Falcone and caused her death, among other things. Since, for the foreseeable future, you're going to spend a lot of time in front of a mirror, you might as well employ that time to reminisce.»

She stared at his reflection, straight in the eyes, jaw clenched.

«Considering the extend of the - ah - ameliorations, you will _also_ be in excruciating pain for the foreseeable future», he added. «The hazards of muscle reattachment and skin grafts. Every movement you make will feel like-»

She turned to him.

«You think you can bring me down», she snarled.

He raised an eyebrow and smirked.

«I-»

« _You_ think you can bring _me_ down», she repeated, turning his smile into a frown.

She used those strange, alien legs to trip him to the floor, and dropped onto him with her full weight, sinking both knees into his stomach. She punched him in the face.

«Better men than you have tried», she railed, punctuating her sentence with another blow. «Stronger men than you have tried. _No one_ can bring me down! _Nothing_ can bring me down!»

She kept punching him, and would have killed him right there if it had been an option. But her body was coming apart at the seams. Blood was streaming from her shoulders and knees, and the scars along her fingers and wrist were reopening too. Not that she felt the pain. She started feeling faint, however. Her skin grew clammy, her breathing labored. She fumbled to get up and walked to the door, hearing Dollmaker cough and hack on the floor as he rolled to the side. She opened the door and started running away, in clumsy strides. She made it to the end of the corridor, then passed out.

###

It had all been planned so carefully. The plan had been so simple, too, and the goal so clear.

Hiring two teams of henchmen in Arnold Flass' name. Abducting the two women in Jim's life. Damaging them just _enough_ to be sure the guilt would eat James alive, and yet not so much as to ruin their lives permanently. Staging an heroic rescue while making sure Gordon could in _no way_ suspect Thompkins and Kean were in danger. Informing him of the ladies' continued survival while rubbing his failing in his face. Reaping the rewards. Making good use of a debt of honor that could _never_ be fully repaid.

It had gone near perfectly too.

Now it was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster.

«GET THAT SURGEON BACK», Oswald screamed as Victor rushed to Thompkins to stem her bleeding. «HE JUST LEFT. HE CAN'T BE FAR.»

Two men ran out. Gilzean joined Zsasz, gaping like an idiot.

Kean walked away from her handiwork and went for the bar, pouring herself a glass of vodka and watching the panic with mild interest. Oswald stared at her in disbelief for a second or so, then charged.

«WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?» he screamed right in her face, nearly head-butting her in his hurry.

She moved back and took a sip of her drink.

«Because I could?»

«Are you _crazy_?»

«Why, yes?»

The crime lord glared at her. The blonde lifted her eyebrows.

«I'm sorry. Were you under the impression that you had abducted me from 'Arkham, girl scout colony for the mentally sound?'»

Oswald opened his mouth. He found no answer to _that_ , so he went for the second most important subject.

« _I_ did not abduct you!» he shouted. «I sent my men to _save your life_.»

«What- _ever_ », she replied.

He took a deep breath, fuming. Then he snapped.

«YOU DID NOT HAVE TO KILL HER! WHAT AM I GOING TO TELL JIM?»

«Of course I had to. I loathe the woman.»

«It's a flesh wound», Zsasz pointed out in an unconcerned voice.

«WHAT IS IT TO ME THAT YOU LOATHED HER? DO YOU SEE ME STABBING EVERYONE I DON'T LIKE?»

It was a good thing he and Miss Kean were not very well acquainted, now that he thought of it, because that argument did not hold much water.

«It's… A… Flesh… Wound», Victor repeated, rolling his eyes.

Oswald whirled to him.

«It is?»

«It _is_?» Kean asked in a disappointed voice.

«It is», the hitman confirmed, pointing to Thompkins.

She was holding a napkin to her neck with her injured hand, and Barbara Kean's shiv with the other. She appeared to be thoroughly pissed.

«It _is_ », she barked. «And let me warn you, if you let her get near me again, you'll have to explain _her_ death to Jim.»

Barbara rolled her eyes and gulped down the rest of her vodka, then served herself a new one.

«A motion like that with a knife that rudimentary could not have made much damage», Victor explained. «There's no enough strength in that kind of motion. It will leave a gash, but you'd need more momentum, _or_ a hooked blade. If you _want_ to be efficient with a front attack to the throat and a straight blade, it's best to stick the point of the knife right _here_ », he continued, tapping the side of his neck. «Then you pull the blade to you.»

Kean was listening to that. Intently. Oswald could have killed them both.

«WILL YOU STOP GIVING THE LUNATIC INSTRUCTIONS?» he shrieked.

Everyone went silent. Everyone _remained_ silent.

He cleared his throat.

«Miss Thompkins, once again, I'm so sorry. If I had suspected this might happen, I-»

«It's not like I was committed for trying to kill her or anything», Kean interrupted. «You couldn't possibly have guessed.»

«Weren't you interned because you murdered your _parents_?» he snapped back.

«Yes, _among other things_.»

Oswald sighed.

«Victor. Please escort Miss Kean to the basement and lock her up. Preferably in a room where she cannot acquire makeshift weaponry. And I would greatly appreciate if neither of you contracted a lethal injury in the process.»

The hitman nodded, grabbed Barbara, and dragged her out of the room.

Oswald closed his eyes and collected himself. He told the guards to tend to Jim's irritating girlfriend. He turned to Butch.

«A word, if you please.»

Gilzean crumpled but followed him to his office without a complaint, though he was sweaty and trembling. Cobbleplot closed the door.

«How could you let this _happen_?»

«Oswald, please, how was I supposed to guess she had a shank? It's not like she tried to use it on our guys when they got her out, or even on me.»

«Did you _search her for weapons_?»

«Even if I had the time to frisk her, I swear I saw no reason to! She wasn't aggressive or anything!»

«She was an _inmate_. Haven't you been in prison before?»

Gilzean paused.

«You have a point. I'm so, so sorry.»

His boss tapped his chess with a finger.

«I'll make sure Victor lets you know exactly how much you-»

He stopped. Two cars were entering the property, their arrival shown by the security screen always on in the office (a precaution against Giulia Maroni). One of them was the surgeon's. The other was Jim's. Oswald raced out of the room and down to the basement. He found Zsasz, who was making his way to the first floor.

«Victor», the mob boss said. «My friend. First, I'll let you know that what I am about to do is in no way personal and that you should not retaliate, as I will generously pay you for the pain you're about to experience. Please believe me when I say that I have considered a variety of other options to deal with the situation at hand, yet none were satisfactory, so I'm left with no choice.»

The killer looked at him blankly, bemused.

Oswald punched him in the nose.

###


	15. Chapter 15

Jim wrapped his arms around Leslie's shivering frame, and did not let go.

She was trying to keep it together, he could see that, but the truth was that she was in unbearable pain and was urgently in need of a trip to the hospital. She was bruised and battered everywhere he could see, and where he could not see - like under the bandage around her hand - the damage was plain horrendous. The freshly sutured gash on her throat was red and swollen, and the cop couldn't look at it without flashbacks of himself pressing a handkerchief to a similar cut on Barbara's bleeding neck. _It_ _'s gonna be okay,_ he had told her.

«Why didn't you just bring her to Gotham General?» the detective snapped, not quite looking at Cobblepot.

If he had tried looking at him, he was certain he would have lost it and started screaming himself hoarse.

«Flass had recruited men to watch the hospital, or so my informants told me! I just couldn't risk it! Imagine if we had brought miss Thompkins to the emergency room, only to see her gunned down by some hireling! The best I could do was to bring her here, where a qualified doctor was ready to care for her.»

Jim closed his eyes. Lee had not shown him her hand, but he'd been told of the fingertip her abductors had amputated. The more he held onto her, the more her weight shifted onto him, as she could not keep herself upright.

The blond felt as if standing on the line between wanting to kill someone and needing to.

«Where is Barbara now?»

Zsasz, who had been tending to his nosebleed in a corner of the living room, grunted.

«Gone. She took me by sur-PRI-se.»

Wanting, needing.

«Are you sure her body won't be found floating in the river by the end of the week?» Jim wondered, because it was the most likely possibility.

The hitman glared at him and stood up in a slow, jittery motion.

«If I had her. If I HAD HER», he screamed. «It would not be at the _end_ of the WEEK. Not. That. _Soon_. I would plaaaaay with her. Carmine did not _let_ me, but I'm on my _own_ NOW.»

The outburst snapped Jim out of his fury, horrified shock taking over for a second. You knew Zsasz was insane. The blond had faced him before. He knew. He'd seen it up close. «Alive is a very broad category». But even back then, during that shooting match at the precinct, Zsasz had been on a leash. Now, nothing stopped him from grabbing his weapon and gunning down everyone in the room, Leslie included. It was not just that he could: he would have enjoyed it, and he was not _unlikely_ to. Lee seemed to realize that too. She shifted away and stared at the killer in stunned terror.

Penguin raised his hands in aggravation.

«Victor! Is not the situation not dire enough for you? Do you somehow feel obligated to make it _worse_?»

The bald man slipped back into a saner persona, composing himself.

«I was merely attempting to make Jim see how accusing people without a shred of proof is not usually welcome.»

«Out», Penguin ordered, showing him the door. «Out, out, out. Now.»

The hitman frowned. The crime boss stared back at him in annoyance. Then Zsasz snorted and left the room. Now, that was something to be worried about, Jim thought.

«He obeys you», the cop remarked.

Cobblepot clicked his tongue.

«Things get much easier with Victor when you realize that he is absolutely clueless about what to do with himself. He is able to put on a very convincing, mature veneer, but the truth is that he is a five years old at heart. If you raise your voice, he will sulk, but he will listen.»

Gordon kept his voice carefully neutral.

«I wish I had known that when he raided the GCPD.»

«Just… Don't pay attention to the man. He's annoying but mostly harmless. I wish he would not spend so much time around the mansion, but it's my understanding he comes with the place. Now, to come back on the topic of miss Kean… My men are looking for her as we speak. She could not possibly have gone far. Once she is caught, I'll have her delivered to the GCPD. As unharmed as the situation allows it. I can't guarantee some overzealous guard won't shoot her in the leg to incapacitate her, but that should be the extend of her injuries. If there are injuries. I did instruct my men not to use violence.»

Jim studied his face and bit the inside of his cheek to stay silent. Once the urge to strangle the man passed, he changed the topic.

«We'll discuss this, but not now. I'm going to bring Leslie to the hospital, and if any 'hireling' tries to interfere, he'll get a hard welcome.»

«Of course, of course. Do you want some of my men to accompany you? They would provide solid protec-»

«No.»

Rage flickered over Oswald's pasty face. He forced himself to smile.

«Ah. A-as you wish, my friend.»

 _He_ _'s going to make you pay if you piss him off now,_ the cop realized. _He_ _'s about as sane as Zsasz._

«Thanks for the help today», he said through gritted teeth.

«Don't mention it. I could hardly stay idle in such an emergency, could I?»

«I suppose not. Leslie, let's go.»

She nodded, he near carried her to the exit.

«I'll call you tomorrow, my friend», Oswald said as a guard opened the door.

Jim felt a chill run down his spine.

###

«No offense or anything», Butch said, «but you suck at killing people.»

He peeked to the side, briefly, as he had crashed one car earlier and did not want to repeat the experience. Barbara Kean wriggled her naked toes on the dashboard. Her shoes were still in Falcone's - Oswald's - mansion, so she was escaping barefooted. She didn't seem to mind.

«I did the best I could! I didn't have much time!» she snapped. «I would have liked to see you try! I don't think you'd have done much better.»

«Of course I would have done much better. I've more experience with knives, for a start. And then I'd have used a gun. You can't go wrong with a gun.»

«Geez. I don't know if you're aware of the fact, but firearms are somewhat more difficult to obtain in a mental institution.»

«Well then, in your place, I wouldn't have tried at all. I don't know how you weren't gunned down the second you touched Thompkins.»

«Cobblepot wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of engineering my abduction and so-called rescue to lose everything at the last second. He needed at least one of us alive, or Jim would have butchered him.»

«How did you even know that he was the one who-»

«Oh _please_. You've met the man. He's a weird, conniving little rat who just _needs_ Jim to like him. I've met him for a grand total of ten minutes in my life and I can see that. Of course he was the one.»

Butch sighed.

«Also», she continued, «you just confirmed it.»

He groaned.

«Bring her to the club», Oswald had told him. «Discretely. And make sure you don't kill her on the way. I want to have the pleasure.»

And she had heard that. She knew she could drive him nuts and get away with it.

«I really liked you better back when you were sane», he muttered.

«Everyone keeps saying that. I like me better now.»

«Well, that's the most important thing, I suppose.»

She removed her feet from the dashboard and put them on the seat instead. She fidgeted.

«How far is that club exactly?»

«Not too far», Gilzean replied. «Ten minutes from here or so.»

«We're near Fifth, aren't we?»

«Yeah?»

«Can we by any chance drop by a friend's?»

The henchman gaped for a second.

«I'm sorry, are you under the impression I'm some kind of taxi driver?»

«Come oooon! It will only take a minute, your boss won't be able to tell!»

«I'm _not_ driving you anywhere but the club. I don't know if you have noticed, but you're not exactly wearing city clothes right now», he told her, pointing at her bloodstained uniform. «And I'm not sure you have friends, and I don't want to be an accessory to whatever murder you might be planning to commit.»

She crossed her arms and started to sulk.

«Are _definitely_ planning to commit», he amended.

###

Oswald walked into the club, handed his coat to a waiter, then hurried to the basement.

He entered very last room, that commonly served as a holding cell, and slammed the door behind him. He got his knife out. Gilzean, who had been watching Kean, took a step back.

«Hi», the bitch said.

She was sitting on the one chair in the room, a metallic monstrosity adorned with more straps than legs. Her legs were crossed, she was comfortably leaning back, and she was smiling. Cobblepot whirled to Butch.

«Why isn't she tied up?»

The imbecile cowered, but cleared his throat.

«You told me not to kill her. I'm fairly sure it's what it would have taken.»

«SHE'S A QUARTER OF YOUR WEIGHT! MAYBE A FIFTH! FULLY CLOTHED! WHAT WAS SHE GOING TO DO TO YOU? TICKLE YOU INTO UNCONSCIOUSNESS?»

The pathetic swine cleared his throat.

«Remember when you pointed out that I should totally have frisked her?» he muttered. «Well I really should have.»

Oswald gaped. Then he slowly, slowly turned to Barbara Kean. She was waving a bloody shank.

«How many of those does she have exactly?» he asked.

«She's in the room and it's not polite to talk about her in the third person», the blonde lectured. «And three. I had three. The things you can get away with when you're awfully nice to the nurses…»

The crime lord stared at her in shock. Then he took a long, shaky breath to calm himself.

«Listen to me very attentively. You are going to drop both knives. Right now. I believe the situation can still be solved in a civilized manner, if we just make the effort of discussing like reasonable, sensible adults.»

«I believe it can be solved by discussing like reasonable, sensible adults, but with me keeping my weapons, frankly.»

Oswald pursed his lips.

«Is that so.»

She gave him a vapid smile.

«Yes.»

He bit the inside of his cheeks so hard he tasted blood, and turned to Gilzean in a slow, jerky motion.

«Just so we are clear», he told the henchman, «I hold you personally responsible for this entire debacle. By the time Zsasz is done with you, you're going to be looking back fondly to that moment you could have died at miss Kean's hands, and that moment will be the point _I_ start having my way with you.»

Butch swallowed, face clammy, and his teeth started to chatter.

«I'm sorry, but that sounds highly negative», the bitch cut in.

« _You_. _YOU._ I will cut you apart piece by piece», he hissed. «You will _beg_ for death. You will go through pain more unbearable than you can possibly imagine, and when you get to that point, I'll make the suffering increase tenfold. And maybe, in some months, if I grow tired of your terrified screams, I will consent to gut you.»

«Actually, I was thinking I could pay my way out of here, then continue a mutually beneficial business relationship where I give you piles of money and you use it to expand your territory and influence, then give me a share of the profits.»

Well, that was unexpected.

«I'm sorry?»

She scratched her cheek with the tip of her knife.

«You _are_ aware I'm Barbara _Kean_ , of _the_ Kean family, and that both my parents - God bless their souls - recently met a violent death at the hands of… Me, I suppose.»

«Of course I'm aware of that», Cobblepot replied by pure reflex.

«Well, the law was not. Not for a few weeks, anyway, which gave me ample time to grasp a fine understanding of my father's creative accounting practices. I'm glad to say I managed to move most of his concealed funds to a variety of accounts in just about as many fiscal paradises. I'm pretty much sitting on a ton of money.»

He chuckled in disbelief, as it was highly unlikely that the blonde had any understanding of entrepreneurship. Her art gallery had been a pet project where her job's only requirement was to look pretty in an overpriced dress.

«So what, I'm supposed to let you go, and wait for a check, while you go off and murder James' girlfriend and her cat?»

«More or less. And mock me all you want, I get the feeling you are not that fond of miss Goody Two Shoes, and would like it entirely better if she was not there to keep Jim grounded.»

«James is a _friend._ I'm not about to release you to wreck havoc on his life because you're a bit miffed he left you.»

«Miffed.»

«Miffed.»

She studied his face, gritting her teeth in anger. Then she perked up and smiled.

«You know what? You're right», she announced, pointing at him with the tip of her blade.

«You don't say.»

She stood and circled the chair.

«There's a chip on my shoulder», she explained, shrugging. «And it's big as a boulder. But with the chance I've been given, I'm gonna be _driven as HELL._ »

Gilzean made a choked noise, distracting Oswald for a second or so. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the Arkham escapee.

«What you are going to be is careless, vengeful, and eventually dead», he pointed out. «All of that because you're vexed that Jim doesn't like you anymore.»

She clicked her tongue and raised both indexes to silence him. She indeed had two knives. The first was in her hand. The second was hidden in her left sleeve, attached to her arm with an elastic band.

«Yes», she said. « _Yes._ »

She took a deep breath and crossed her arms over the chair's back.

«I've been _smiling_ and _sweet_ _»_ , she explained, balling her hands into fists. «And thoroughly _beaten_ » - She scratched her throat along a near invisible scar, where Jason Lennon had cut her - «blowing my chance.»

Butch chuckled. Oswald's eyes narrowed. He was missing something, but he didn't know what, and it infuriated him.

Kean circled the chair again and sat down on the very edge of it, crossing her legs and leaning back.

«This chip on my shoulder makes me smarter and bolder», she said with a mean grin. «No more whining or blaming. I'm _reclaiming my pride_. As for Jim? Let's not chase him away. Let's face him and say-»

«Hey punk, let's dance?» Gilzean suggested, earning himself a large smile.

« _Exactly_ », the lunatic replied. She turned to Oswald. «Now, maybe we should talk numbers.»

«I'm listening. What paltry sum do you intend to offer me for your freedom?»

«Two hundred thousand dollars?»

He rolled his eyes.

«Now that's just plain ridiculous.»

«Four?» she tried, rolling _her_ eyes.

«Still not nearly worth the trouble you got me in, with that little trick with Thompkins. That won't be fixed with some pocket change.»

«Six, then.»

«I'm starting to believe you really intend to scam me.»

She sighed.

«Now who is being ridiculous? One million. And you better make good use of it.»

The crime lord thought of Victor's ridiculous quote, and smirked.

«Can you make it two?»

* * *

 _So! The song Barbara is ripping off for most of her little speech is "Chip on my shoulder" from the "Legally blonde" musical. Oswald is obviously not well versed in musical romantic comedies. I somehow don't think it's his cup of tea._


	16. Chapter 16

«You okay?» Harvey asked, joining Jim in front of the doors of Gotham General.

The blond was sitting on on the stairs, looking like days old crap.

«Me? I'm fine. It's Lee you have to worry about.»

Bullock lit a cigarette, ignoring the death stares thrown his way, and sat next to his partner.

«How's she doin'?»

His friend just breathed in. Selina Kyle picked that moment to saunter to them. She stopped in front of them, hand in her pockets, rocking on her heels.

«Hello, Selina», Jim greeted. Then he turned to Harvey. «Babysitting duty?»

«She was squatting my apartment when I went home.»

«She does that.»

«HEY! _She_ _'s_ right here.»

«Anyway, she's surprisingly difficult to dislodge», Harvey continued, rubbing his scratched cheek. «And when she saw the news about the attack on Arkham, she had me drive her there like her own personal chauffeur.»

«You were going anyway, jackass», the kid snapped back. «And I just wanted to know what was happening with Barb'.»

Jim stared right through the girl, his face going blank.

«Barbara», he whispered. His voice grew stronger. «Barbara. Well, _Barbara_ let herself be rescued by Penguin's men, went to his place, and then slit Leslie's throat.»

Kyle was both unsurprised and unconcerned by the news.

«I take it it didn't stick, or you wouldn't be here?»

«No, it didn't _stick_ », Gordon replied in a carefully empty voice.

«So where is Barbara now?» the girl questioned him.

«I have no idea. No one does. It's not unlikely Cobblepot killed her. If he has not, well, she escaped, and she must be somewhere, plotting her next attempted murder, maybe.»

Selina rolled her eyes.

«Well whose fault is that?»

Jim froze. Harvey heaved himself up.

«Mind not being an absolute _cunt_ for two seconds?» he shouted.

«Well, I'm _sorry_ , but it's not like I'm wrong, is it? _WHO_ totally forgot about Barbara and let her be kidnapped by the psycho serial killer he was baiting? _WHO_ didn't notice she came back all messed up and got all surprised when she tried to stab his girlfriend? And seriously, it's not like it was hard to notice. Why'd'ya think Ivy and I ran back to the streets and ended up with Fish?»

Gordon stood up and walked back into the hospital, not even bothering to defend himself.

«Oh Jesus _Christ_ », his partner swore, watching him go. «I hope you're proud of yourself.»

«As a matter of fact? _Yeah_.»

The detective whirled to the girl.

«That was _shitty_. That was plain _shitty_. You didn't have to kick the guy when he was down.»

She snorted.

« _Right_. Kicking people when they're down is practically your mantra. You do it all the time!»

«Not to _nice_ people!»

«Well he _deserves_ to be kicked when he's down, because it's not like he pays attention the rest of the time! He thinks he's such a _great_ cop. Jim Gordon, _saving the day_! Plowing through! So what if someone has to escort Bruce away from professional assassins while he blunders around, or if a perfectly _nice_ lady goes crazy? _Saving the day!_ » - She paused to breathe in, jaw clenched shut, then stared straight into Harvey's eyes. - «He should _know_ how much he fucked up!»

The cop's anger faded as she spoke, replaced by tiredness.

Jim's ability to soldier through his failures was both a strength and a blessing, and it made him _him._ Every hospice bill Harvey paid still hit him square in the gut. He still _felt_ how much he had fucked up when he had cost Dix his legs, and he didn't wish that guilt upon anyone. Not that he dwelled on that too often.

«Are you done?», he asked.

She glared at him with all of the hatred she could gather, which was plenty. Out to fend for herself for years, with nothing and no one to rely on, every adult in her life dead or gone.

«No I'm _not._ I liked Barb'! We were _safe!_ Ivy was not sick anymore! We had food and we had money! And that _idiot_ runs in with that shitty drawing of _some guy_ , because he messed up _again_ , and I'm supposed to feel _sorry_ for him and not tell him things as they are? _NO, I_ _'m not DONE!_ »

Harvey sighed.

«Bitching at him - or capturing him to hand him over to Fish, for that matter - ain't gonna fix Kean. And it ain't gonna make you feel any better.»

«DON'T TELL ME HOW I'LL FEEL.»

«WELL THEN FUCK OFF! You knew what you wanted to know! Get the hell out of my sight!»

She stomped away.

###

«Well my Abra is level fifteen so it's much better than your Charmander.»

«Yeah but _I_ have a Ninetales so your Abra is just lousy.»

«Well I didn't cheat to get my Abra!»

«I didn't cheat to get my Ninetales! Mooooooom!»

Giulia leaned back into the passenger seat and tried to tune out the boys' bickering. She had not sent them to school since Salvatore's death, and while she loved her sons, having twins around for such a long period was tiring. The gameboys kept them busy, but unfortunately not silent. She waved to Umberto so he would settle his argument himself.

«Are you alright?» she asked to Montoya, who was driving with a vacant expression on her face.

The undercover cop blinked twice before realizing she was being talked to. She had been pale and withdrawn since the previous day.

«Wh… Yes. Yes, Mrs. Maroni.»

«You look preoccupied.»

«It's nothing to be concerned about, Mrs. Maroni. A small family matter.»

Giulia studied her face. Her only worry was that the «matter» was work related. But the only notable event of the previous day had been the raid on Arkham Asylum. Her moles in the MCU hadn't noticed anything strange. Crispus Allen was perfectly fine. As for Montoya's family, she only had her parents, and their lives seemed unperturbed.

«I hope it resolves itself quickly, then», she replied, turning back to the road.

Her phone rang. She picked up as Montoya turned left.

«Carmine. It's been nearly twenty-four hours. I was growing wor-»

«Get your driver to turn left.»

The old man's tone was unmistakable: cold, urgent, and afraid. Giulia turned to Renee, who had gone from dejection to perfect focus. She was peeking in the rear-view mirror, and to the sides of the car. An Audi started following them, coming from the street they had been meant to take, before that sudden left turn.

«We're being tailed», the cop announced in a whisper, so the children would not hear.

«Boys. Heads down», Giulia ordered, getting her gun.

They complied immediately, sliding down and keeping out of the line of sight, as Sal had taught them to back when they were four. Their mother pressed her phone to her ear.

«Left again», Carmine prompted her.

It was a split second decision. The old bastard was probably sending her right into a trap.

«Left!» she snapped.

Montoya braked and turned, having nearly missed the intersection, then sped.

«What now?», she asked Falcone.

She peeked through the rear-view window. Three cars were chasing them: the Audi, and two nondescript Fords.

«Now you avoid Seventh and Eight, and I'll tell you all I can as soon as I get more information from my men.»

She repeated the instructions to Montoya, who nodded. She was driving fast, but the streets were not empty and the traffic forced her to swerve and slow down. It made it difficult to escape their pursuers. Maroni clenched her teeth.

«What's going on?»

«Oswald Cobblepot finally collected enough money to send Zsasz after you. Victor is not one to waste time.»

She swore.

«I told you he would be a thorn in your side, my dear», Carmine pointed out. «You should not have waited to dispose of him.»

«Well, you know how things go. He's one expensive bastard to take out, and I have territory to maintain.»

«Turn right.»

« _Right!_ »

Montoya turned, barely avoiding gunfire from an approaching truck. A stray bullet shattered a side window.

«I take it it's a large operation?» Giulia mused.

«Worth a few millions», the required Don commented. «Cristiano's demise being bundled in. By the way, where is he? You'd think your best hitman would not leave your side.»

«Unrest in the Bowery, I sent him to handle things.»

«Learn not to separate yourself from your most efficient bodyguard, my dear. Make your way to Port Adams.»

Giulia repeated that to Montoya too. The streets grew quieter as they moved away from the city streets and entered the industrial area. The only vehicles they had to avoid were slow moving trucks. Their car moved faster, but so did their pursuers'. One of the Fords caught up with them. It was driven by one of Zsasz' girls. The other was in the car too, sitting on the backseat, and aiming at them.

«HEADS DOWN!» Giulia screamed, even though the boys were still burying their faces into their laps.

The assassin started firing. So did Giulia. Zsasz' sidekick did not make it.

Maroni heard Montoya shout her name and saw her ram the car into the Ford, on purpose. The boys screamed. She felt faint. The cop grabbed her phone.

«Where to?»

There was more ramming of cars, more gunshots, more brutal turns, then the cop drove straight through a warehouse's open doors. The men waiting inside let them pass, and opened fire on the cars that followed them. Giulia was helped out of her seat. She breathed in and fought the dizziness. Shoulder wound. Some blood loss. Not critical. Her legs were terribly weak all the same.

She turned to the entrance and watched the doors slowly sliding closed. Men were posted on scaffolding along the walls, inside the warehouse, and were shooting outside through arrow slits.

The Audi was parked just out of range. All she saw of the driver was that he was bald, enough to recognize Victor Zsasz.

There was a «clank» as the doors finished closing.

A man joined Giulia, who took a deep breath. _Straight from the frying pan, into the fire._

«So, Carmine, wasn't Trinidad agreeing with you?»

«Such a bland place. And I couldn't bear the constant sunburns», he replied, his skin as pale as ever. «Let's have that shoulder tended to, my dear.»

###

«You _bought_ me», Butch said.

He'd been driving Barbara around for half an hour with that thought running in circles in his minds.

She had _bought_ him. For one million dollars, to be paid in installments. Which, added to the million she was already shelling out for her own release, made for quite a check. There had been some bartering - enough for Oswald's face to go from mocking superiority to sheer annoyance - and the woman had made sure to let the crime lord know that the completion of the payment entirely depended on her continued survival. She had given him access to one offshore business and its bank account, but the available funds for that one fell just a little short of the million. Now, for a second, Butch had thought Cobblepot would decide that was just enough money to shoot Kean in the face and be done with it, but the boy was a greedy little bastard. Terms had been discussed, as well as the dates and amounts of the installments to be paid, then Oswald had waited for a few hours (and the proof that he could actually get his hands on the first account) to free her.

At no point had the mob boss picked up on the fact that Kean had been quoting the «Legally Blonde» musical for most of their conversation. Thankfully.

«I did», Barbara commented, reading a fashion magazine she had Butch purchase from the first Walmart they had passed near, along with the jeans and sweater she was now wearing.

«You _bought_ me.»

«I believe I just confirmed that.»

«Yes. I just don't think you get what I mean, lady.»

«What is there to understand? I needed a sidekick, and Cobblepot was ready to let you go, not necessarily in one piece. And you are funny. So I bought you.»

«That's still not what I mean. You seem to think that you can actually _buy_ people.»

«Yes?»

«You _can_ _'t_ actually buy people.»

«Was there any hope that the crazy little creep would ever let you go _alive_?»

«Not really but-»

«Where you obeying him blindly?»

«That's-»

«Then he owned you. And he could sell you. Now turn left.»

He turned left.

«So is this some kind of indentured servitude or a permanent slavery deal? Just so I know.»

«Are you going to nag me for much longer? I _can_ get a refund, you know?»

He groaned.

«Second street on the right», she said.

Butch followed her directions for another quarter of an hour, finally stopping in front of a small house in suburbia, right out of Gotham, in a world of white picket fences and HOAs. Barbara got out of the car and went to ring the house's doorbell. Her «sidekick» joined her, not quite hurrying his pace. A man opened the door, recognized Kean, and hugged her.

«Hey, Jaimie!» she greeted him. «You still have my things?»

«Your suitcases? Yep, in the attic. Come on in! Who's your friend?»

«New driver», she replied, walking through the door.

She motioned for Butch to follow, which he did. Apparently she had friends who did not _mind_ that she had turned into a murderous lunatic. That was a surprise.

«Want to buy anything while you're here?» Jaimie asked.

«No, no, I'm trying to get clean. You know how it goes. You really don't want to mix and match when you're on meds.»

«Aw, that sucks. Want coffee?»

«Coffee would be nice, thank you.»

They were invited to sit in the kitchen and served coffee, then Jaimie went to fetch two large suitcases from the attic.

«So, you orchestrated your own escape or something?» the dealer wondered. «I saw you on TV, they say you were abducted.»

«I was abducted, then helped out. And I really don't feel like going back», Barbara explained, opening one of the suitcases and retrieving a pair of sandals.

She promptly removed the sneakers Butch had bought for her and stuffed them in the suitcases, under piles of neatly folded clothing.

«Yeah, I hear the place is creepy as hell. Are you getting out of town?»

The blonde took a sip of her coffee.

«Absolutely. I was thinking Spain, or maybe Venice. I've always wanted to visit Venice.»

She finished her cup and quietly put it down.

«But we can't stay», she continued. «Though it was very nice to see you again. I have a train to catch in an hour.»

She turned to Butch, extending her hand.

«Wallet?»

He stared at her. She waited, lifting her eyebrows. He handed her his wallet. She took out two hundred bucks and gave them to Jaimie.

«Thanks again for storing my things. You were a life saver.»

«You're welcome. Good luck to you.»

Butch and Barbara left the house and drove away from the suburbs, the woman's only instructions being «find me a safe house». He knew better than to argue. Oh, he could have pointed out that safe houses required a modicum of preparation, and that he was not miraculously going to pull one out of his hat, but he had understood by then that the less time you spent talking to Barbara Kean, the saner you remained. And he happened to have a few safe houses in town, anyway. With Fish's temper and constant plotting, it had just been common sense to prepare a few hideouts.

He brought miss Crazypants to the same building he had brought Fish to after rescuing her from that torture room, to the same tiny, cramped room. He felt ill as soon as he entered the place, memories flooding in. Remembering Fish gave him cold sweats, now. There was still longing, of course, but her name was tied to the stench of Dettol and to unbearable pain.

Barbara pushed him out of the way to drag her suitcases into the room, and opened them. She threw shirts and dresses on the bed, pêle-mêle, digging for something more to her taste.

«So what do you think?» she asked, showing him to fairly similar black dresses. «Which one would look best?»

He picked one at random. His opinion did not matter. It had not mattered to Fish either, in similar situations.

«That one.»

She beamed.

«I think so too!» she declared, stripping out of her sweater and pants.

Butch had never turned away from a woman so fast in his life. He stared at the wall, listening to the sounds of ruffled fabric.

«Can't believe you dragged me on a two hours ride to go and get some old clothes», he muttered, as a distraction more than anything.

He could absolutely believe it. Could she have bought new dresses? Weren't the outfits replaceable? Ten years by Fish's side had taught him the answer to those questions. Barbara walked to him, poking his shoulder. She clicked her tongue and made him turn.

«What do you think?»

The dress managed to be at once entirely slutty and not trashy at all. It couldn't have been cut shorter, nor more elegantly. It was a strange mix, the kind that came with really expensive designer clothing.

«Nice», he replied, neutral.

That was not the answer she had wanted. She took a step back, clenching her teeth. Butch wondered where her blades were. He felt like escaping.

He could overpower her and run, but Zsasz would find him. Oswald would notice quickly enough he was not getting his money. He closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts away.

She grabbed his tie.

«Can I see your scars?» she asked, prying the knot loose.

Butch jumped away, blind with fury. He was an easygoing guy. He _was_. You had to go out of your way to shake him into more than lukewarm annoyance. But _that_ …

«Your so-called one million dollar 'purchase' does not entitle you to my dignity», he hissed.

She looked up in surprise. He expected a «it does». For all intents and purposes, it _did_. But she blinked, shook her head, and smiled.

«I just… I just want to _see_ », she explained, pulling his necktie away and opening the first button of his shirt.

He let her undo the others, watching her in disgust. If she noticed he was shaking with rage, she made no comment. She opened his shirt and grinned, looking at his scarred, burnt, mangled skin. Her fingers hovered over his chest, tracing but not touching the outlines of his worst wounds. He bit the inside of his cheeks. She was studying the damage. She wanted to figure out what had been done to him, so she could try it herself.

She scratched a patch of burned flesh. Butch had to fight the knee-jerk reaction of slapping her. He grabbed her wrist instead.

«Lady, do you _want_ me to hurt you?» he growled.

Her smile flickered between defiant and lost, while never leaving the territory of «crazy». Gilzean's rage vanished as he realized that _yes_ , she wanted him to. It was exactly what she was looking for. She was messed up enough that she was _hoping_ for it. He just couldn't be angry at that, it was too pathetic. He could feel pity, though, tons of it. It was the kind of things that got to him, the psychological damage, the trauma. He could kill someone in cold blood and not lose any sleep. He could abduct, beat up, and torture, and not feel overly concerned about it. He did not delude himself into thinking that his living victims had left his care in perfect mental condition. Some PTSD, he figured. Some bad dreams. Some anxiety. Maybe the occasional case of alcoholism and drug addiction. But he didn't think he had ever _erased_ someone, that he had ever scrambled their marbles so bad that their concept of normalcy had flipped.

She tried to free her right hand, failed, and slapped him with the left one. He endured the stinging and grabbed that hand too. So she started kicking him, and he pulled her to him, holding her close so she could not hurt him. She still headbutted him and stomped on his feet. When that failed to make him snap, she changed tactics. She smiled - a nasty, chilling thing - and started moving against him, ever so slightly grinding their hips together.

That was the kind of game she was pretty good at winning.

###


	17. Chapter 17

Oswald tapped his fingers on his desk.

«What, pray tell, is so complicated about murdering a stay-at-home mom and her two ten years old? You disappoint me. Oh, it's not just that you disappoint me: I'm thoroughly baffled by your astonishingly unlikely failure. I even went out of my way to keep Cristiano busy!»

Victor paced, nervously playing with his rings.

«You have a mole», he snapped. «She was warned. And not just warned! There was a full blown rescue team prepared to extract her! I had vehicles on _every_ street. _EVERY STREET!_ And what happened? Several of those cars were blocked, attacked, and taken out. Right as the target arrived on location. So _someone_ snitched.»

Oswald stared at him.

«Has it occurred to you that the most likely culprit would be one of your men? They were privy to your plan.»

« _You_ were privy to the plan!»

«And we both know I didn't go and protect the bitch. So it has to be someone else, and I assure you my hiring process is very strict. So, again, it has to be one of your men.»

Zsasz stopped pacing, and walked to the desk, leaning forward until his face was nearly touching Oswald's.

«It is not one of my men», he repeated.

The crime lord moved back, ill at ease.

«Very well. It's an absolute mystery. What did you manage to extract from the warehouse?»

«Nothing. As I told you, several trucks left it, and I couldn't gather a new team quickly enough to follow them, especially since the trucks were defended and opened fire on us. All that was left in the building was Giulia's car.»

«And, of course, we don't know where she found refuge after that. She did not resurface. She was not seen at her house. My spies in her lieutenant's employs say the lieutenants have not been able to contact her.»

Oswald mused on that. Giulia's absence could have been a very nice opportunity to attempt to take over some of her holdings, but it was very likely that she was merely holed up in some safe house, monitoring the city. Her remaining lieutenants were also able to hold their own. No, there was no way to salvage the catastrophic events of the day. He whirled in his chair, stood, and walked to the window, turning his back to Victor.

«The contract is still on and I expect you to complete it. Find her.»

There was a lengthy pause.

«Find your mole», the hitman replied. «You will receive _no_ information on my plans until you do.»

###

«We're getting burgers», Harvey announced when Jim picked up his ringing phone. «You and the lady and, apparently, my lady. I'm picking you up in half an hour.»

Jim blinked. He had not heard of Harvey since Leslie had left the hospital, three days before, and they had spent that time holed up in her apartment. Jim did not want to leave her alone with Barbara on the loose, and she was still shaken by her abduction. He had cooked and ordered in so she would not have to use her hand for that, but every motion caused her pain, and every gesture brought her attention back to her maimed finger.

She only allowed herself to collapse in private: when Jim was out to get groceries, or alone in the bathroom. She spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom. Jim spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in front of her apartment door with bags of fresh food, because it was clear by that point that Lee did not want him around, but he could not leave her unprotected. She had been abducted at the orders of a _cop_ , and even if Flass was dead, what did it say about the force? No one else could keep watch.

Jim was not sure she'd be up for an evening out.

«You have a _lady_?» he asked, rather than giving a direct answer.

«Yeah, I have a _lady_ , which you'd know if you'd bothered asking.»

«I think you gave me leave to never ask when you said your love life was a short and nasty open book.»

«The crap you extract from casual conversation baffles me.»

«So what's her name?»

«You'll have to come and ask you herself, asshat. That'll teach you.»

«I'll see if Lee is interested. I'll call you back!»

Forty-five minutes later, Jim and Leslie made their way to the closest burger joint, a block away. The cop felt paranoid, and his eyes kept scanning the crowd for any sign of blond hair. Barbara had tried to kill Leslie twice. He didn't put it past her to try again. Cobblepot had not found her, and her body had not - as he had expected it to - washed up on the riverside. Then again, half of what sank into those waters never surfaced again, so _maybe_ she had been killed and disposed off. It would have been a re-.

He caught himself before he finished that thought.

His mind wasn't at rest. He kept picturing what would happen if Barbara _did_ appear. Maybe she was hiding in plain sight under a hooded coat and would stab Lee as she passed next to them. Maybe she would just slip out of some dark corner an point a gun at Jim's face. In both scenarios, he could see her large, crazy grin.

«Hey!», Harvey called as they arrived. «Look who's _finally_ here»

He was waiting in front of the dinner's doors, and waving to them.

Jim grinned, then froze as he recognized the redhead standing next to his partner.

«Oh my god», he gasped. Then he turned to Bullock. «You jackass! You didn't say anything! Why didn't you say anything?»

He ignored the man's grin and his «Didn't hear you asking!» and turned to Scottie Mullens, composing himself.

«Miss Mullens, I'm glad to see you again.»

She laughed, greeted him, then let herself be introduced to Lee. Once that was done, she turned to Harvey.

«You really didn't say anything?»

«And miss _that_ look on his face? Hell, no.»

«You're an ass», she replied, chuckling. «Did I ever tell you you were an ass?»

«Several variations of it. I might even start to believe you. So! I'm starving! Who is starving?»

They walked into the dinner, picked a table and ordered. Leslie didn't even pause to consider, and asked for fries and chicken nuggets. She usually favored cheeseburgers, but nuggets only required one hand. The thought turned Jim's stomach, but tried to put it out of his mind as Harvey started regaling them with gossip on the GCPD (among other things, Miss Kringle had eloped with her boyfriend, officer Dougherty, and no one had any clear idea of how to find anything in her records). The mood grew cheerier.

Jim quickly gathered the invitation had been an ambush of sorts, as Scottie and Leslie had quite a few things in common, starting with «working with the mentally ill», and ending with «having been brutally abducted». The two of them clicked. Scottie had a lot of stories to share, both from her job as a career counselor and her years running her support group.

«Let's face it, I'm way more scared of pools than I am of serial killers, so I wasn't about to close shop», she explained when Leslie expressed surprise at her not giving up after Crane's attack. «And I want to swim again someday, so I'm not giving up.»

«Wasn't it hard?» Lee asked with mild curiosity, as if making small talk.

She still touched the bandage on her fingers, hands shaking. Scottie smiled.

«Therapy will do wonders - I _know_ , Harvey, you don't believe in therapy.»

«I haven't said nothing!», Bullock replied, faking indignation.

«As I was saying… Wonders. My therapist is amazing, a specialist in trauma counseling, I've known her years. She worked closely with a few of the people from my group. Amazing lady.»

«I… I'd like her number, if you think she might be available. I've been looking for someone I could talk to.»

Jim did his best not to stare in wonder. Scottie was working magic.

Instead, he turned to Harvey, smiled, and mimed and mouthed his thoughts.

«How did you manage _this?_ Entirely too good for you!» he teased, subtly pointing to Scottie.

His partner grinned and wrapped an arm around her, beaming with pride. She paused in her discussion, gave him a cheeky smile and a kiss, then resumed talking to Leslie.

Jim and Harvey didn't quite need to fill each second with words, so they ate in comfortable silence, with the odd remark about the food. Every now and then, the dinner's door opened and people streamed in, and both their hands inched towards their guns, though they had not discussed Barbara.

###

«So, what do you think?» Mrs. Valentine asked. «He's handsome, isn't he?»

Nate took a sip of his soda and kept the straw right next to his mouth, pretending to be focused on the drink.

«I don't know», he commented of the man he'd been ordered to observe. «He seems fairly depressed to me. You might want - maybe - someone with a more cheerful disposition. Especially with David not being in top shape at the moment.»

Gordon was the gloomiest of his group of four, and the most reserved. The redhead and her husband were very cheerful, and the brunette was a bit withdrawn, but Jim Gordon was just dark, and tense, and never quite relaxed, even when he laughed.

Mrs. Valentine clicked her tongue.

«Nonsense. He's a soldier. Well, a cop, but you know what I mean. A soldier at heart. He is a war hero, did I tell you? And he caught the Electrocutioner. It was on TV.»

«I'm sorry, Mrs. Valentine. I must not have been paying attention.»

«I've been keeping an eye on him for a while now», the old lady said, stabbing her salad (her heart could not take burgers anymore, she had announced as they ordered). «He's a real hero. The _one_ good cop in Gotham. He went after that serial killer the police would not touch, too. The _Ogre_ , who murdered all of those poor girls.»

Nate did not stab her through the throat with his fork, but only because Shawn would have died in the crazy woman's basement. Bashing her skull in would only mean she wouldn't be there to input the secret code that reset the timer on their necklaces every day. It would slowly count down to zero - eighty-six thousand four hundred hundred seconds at reset - and then detonate the bombs. No one could disarm the damn things. Those who had tried had ended up a gory mess for Nate to clean up.

«Do you intend to bring him in today?» he asked.

His jailer shook her head.

«I don't know who to pair him with yet, and I don't want him to be bored for days like David was before I found him Sabrina. It's just too much work bringing the unmatched party out, and having him interact with random women until I spot one who clicks. No. I'd rather observe him, see if he has chemistry with someone… Though I'll admit, the redhead is a nice surprise. She's sparkly.»

«They both have significant others», Nate pointed out in an empty voice.

It didn't matter to Valentine. He wondered, every now and then, if his wife had remarried. It was more than likely after so many years. Hell, their daughter was nearly out of elementary school.

« _Yes_ », Mrs. Valentine spat back with indignation. «And what horrible choices they have made. That… Girl, that Leslie? She is so _bland_. No spine, no personality… And mangled, too. Didn't you hear them talk about an amputation?»

Nate had not. The old bitch had a much better hearing than his, which was surprising, considering her age. He shook his head.

«And that beautiful red haired girl?», Valentine continued. «She can do so much better than that crude, dirty swine of a man.»

«If you say so, Mrs. Valentine.»

###


	18. Chapter 18

As far as life advice went, one of the most sensible, important tips was «don't stick your dick in crazy». It was a good rule, if only because if you _did_ stick your dick in crazy, you could not be sure you would get it back. More generally, it ended in a mess in eleven out of ten cases. Butch liked sensible life advice. He tried to follow common sense in most of his decisions, when common sense applied (which was rarely). He had been known to slip. Among other things, he had joined the Mafia. And followed Fish Mooney for more than a decade. And killed a few people. And if Fish had admitted to returning his feelings more than five minutes before her demise, he would have thrown caution to the winds and stuck his dick in crazy with reckless abandon.

All things considered, maybe he wasn't that good at decision making. So it was a good thing that Barbara was so certifiably insane that he did not feel the compulsion to accept her advances. Not too much. She _was_ laying it on quite thick. But he had the distinct feeling that attempting to sleep with Kean would have been akin to throwing one's soul into a blender and expecting to get it out intact. She did not want _sex_. She wanted to find some button to push you over the edge so you would pay her a visit in Crazy Land. It was all a creepy, sick power game, and Butch wanted no part of it. His cock was not always in perfect agreement, but so far his brains had remained firmly in control. It helped that her mood swings were bad enough that you knew saying yes could get you stabbed in the face.

Her brand of crazy was hard to pinpoint. Bipolars swayed between mania and depression. That was their thing. If he had to coin a term here, he'd have aimed for «multipolar», what with not being a psychiatrist or anything. She could be all nice and elegant and polite and ladylike, only to start sulking like a four years old for reasons that made no sense at all. Then she would flip and physically attack you, be it with her fists or knives (it had led to her taking a chair to the face, as the sanest reaction against a knife-wielder was not to let them within arm's reach). Or she would quote Dead or Alive - «All I know is that to me, you look like you're lots of fun, open up your lovin' arms» and all that jazz - and _flirt_ like you wouldn't believe. She could also go blank and vacant and lost, talking like a little child. Or, most of the time, she went into full «this is hilarious», «no fucks given» mode, which was the worst of all because it drove you _insane_.

The song lyrics thing was weird. Funny, but weird.

Butch could not figure out what her plans were. He was not sure she _had_ plans beyond the next day. There was some «attempt to murder Jim Gordon's loved ones» on the horizon, but nothing expressly defined. She was «considering her options», or so she said. Mostly, they spent their days reading magazines in their hideout, and Butch was sent to get bio salads and smoothies at random intervals. When Kean actually tried to organize something, it seemed to have freshly popped out of her mind.

«Hey, can you find me some men?» she asked one day, from her cushion fort on the bed, in the middle of a 16 and pregnant episode.

«Probably. Depends. What for?»

«Criminal activities.»

«Well that really clarifies matters. I'll post a classified and let you sort through the resumes.»

«Now come on, don't be difficult. I thought 'henchmen' jobs required versatility.»

«Lady. Different jobs require different skill sets and, more importantly, different salaries. So what do you want to do? Steal things? Kill people? Rob places?»

«All of the above? Maybe?»

«Pick one!»

«Are you somehow unable to get men for one of those activities?»

«Huh, no?»

«THEN STOP BEING DIFFICULT AND JUST SAY YES!»

He groaned.

«Yeah, I suppose I can get you men.»

She jumped out of bed and stole his phone, then made a call and started pacing, waiting for the other side to pick up. It took twenty seconds. By that point, she was standing on the bed and bouncing into place. She dropped down in lotus position as soon as someone replied.

«Hi, Paul! This is Barbara, Barbara Kean! I have a business proposal for you. I believe you'll reeeeally like it.»

Three hours later, they met «Paul» in the woods right behind his mansion. The man - a forty-something in an Armani suit - was accompanied by two bodyguards, and kept a sane distance between him and Barbara.

«Barbara. I'll have to admit, your call came as a surprise. I was under the impression you were on the run after your escape from Arkham Asylum.»

She gave him a polite, warm smile.

«I wouldn't say on the run. I fully intend to stay in Gotham. I grew up here. You know how difficult it is to leave your home.»

«Yes, of course. Now, from the news I have heard… Were you really committed because you murdered your parents?»

«I'm afraid that's true. We just couldn't see eye to eye.»

«Well, I suppose I'm mostly surprised that it took you so long.»

Butch choked at that. Paul turned to him, unfazed.

«I take it you never met Miss Kean's parents?»

«Haven't had the pleasure», Gilzean replied, stunned.

Paul chuckled and turned back to Barbara.

«What brings you? I'll admit, I'm curious about that business proposal.»

«I'll be direct. Is your prenup still preventing you from getting that divorce?»

Paul stared at her, lips pinched. He mulled over her words, then relaxed.

«You weren't kidding when you said 'direct', were you? How does that relate to business?»

«I thought you might be in need of some assistance to extract some valuables from your home, and exchange them for sixty percent of their value in cash. The Picasso comes to mind.»

«Just so we are clear. When you say 'extract', you mean 'steal', right?»

«I think the exact terms would be 'armed robbery', if I'm not mistaken, but I'm not yet up to date on criminal terminology.»

Butch stared at her. So she _had_ a plan. And it was not absolutely insane either. He could picture it: raiding the mansion, walking out with one or two master painting and whatever wasn't nailed down on the way. It wouldn't be easy - that kind of place came with guards - but it would not be _impossible_. About the same odds as a bank heist, really, minus the terrified civilians. The place was out of town, too, which meant a slower response time from the cops. Also, if one of the residents were to inform the team of the guards' routine, things could go very smoothly.

Paul crossed his arms.

«How am I supposed to trust you not to vanish with the paintings?»

Barbara lifted her eyebrows.

«It would greatly hinder my future as a fence, really, seeing how you would immediately tell the cops that I contacted you about a 'purchase' or something equally _not_ incriminating for you.»

«Not nearly convincing enough», her potential customer replied.

She smiled.

«It makes no difference to you, does it? You won't see a dime of the value of those paintings if Janet leaves you, and we both know you're grasping at straws to keep your relationship together. At _worst_ , I vanish with the Picasso. What is it to you? Janet will be the one inconvenienced. You lose nothing.»

«At worst you get caught and you accuse me of helping you out.»

She started laughing and did not quite stop. After a few moments, she waved her hand and wiped her eyes.

«I'm a _lunatic_ », she pointed out. «Certifiably insane. Can't stand trial. A whole team of doctors agreed. I could accuse you, and so _what_? No one would believe me.»

Paul studied her face. Butch studied his. The man was convinced.

###

Dollmaker had not lied about the pain. Once the meds had worn off - and that had been right after he had sewn her torn stitches back together - she had started to feel it.

It was bad. It was awful when she breathed. It was worse when she moved. Not that she moved a lot, being strapped to her bed. But it was bad even when the only thing she did was stare at Liza on the ceiling's mirror. She could feel every suture, and they numbered in the thousands.

The pain, she could take. She was not about to brag that she could endure any kind of torture, but she was tougher than most. She had never had a choice in the matter. Life, lemons, lemonade. What she could not stomach was the inaction. She could not free herself (God knew she had tried, and it had only gotten her stitches to reopen). Thus, she could not get out of bed, she could not bash the Dollmaker's face in when he visited, and she could not attempt to escape. Which was infuriating, as she knew the door was not even locked. She had no idea how long she had spent in the room either. There was no night and day, the walls were mirrors from floor to ceiling, without a single window. No clocks. Her meals seemed to be brought every four hours, if she had counted right, but she couldn't match the nurses' visits to a specific hour.

She was going crazy with rage.

The only thing she could do was insult Dulmacher when he joined her, and it would have sounded so pathetic that she mostly kept silent. She still ground her teeth every time the door opened.

That day, she turned her head expecting to find herself face to face with her jailer. She had to look down by a few heads.

«Hi», said the seven years old brown skinned boy who had pushed the door open.

She blinked.

«Hello?»

Now what was a _child_ doing there?

He was wearing a hospital gown and plastic slippers. His arms were covered with needle marks.

«Have you seen my brother?» he asked. «The nurses say he's in another room but I can't find him.»

«I don't know», Fish replied. «What does your brother look like?»

The boy rocked on his heels and walked to her.

«Like me», he announced. «But bigger. Like this.»

He waved his hand ten inches above his head.

«I don't think I've seen him. What's your name?»

«Why are you all tied up?»

«So I don't turn while I sleep. I have _stitches_ », she said, thankful that her bandages were covering enough for the boy not to see the horrors underneath.

«I have stitches too», he said, taping his belly. «I had appendicitis.»

Appendicitis seemed a bit too common for Dulmacher's skill. What had the boy received? A kidney? A liver?

«Did you?»

«Yep. You have a lot of scars.»

«I _do_ , as a matter of fact. So. You still didn't tell me your name.»

«I'm Calvin.»

«Like Calvin and Hobbes?»

He glared at her. He clearly had heard that before.

«Ah well, what's in a name? I'm _Fish_ », she replied.

«You're serious?»

«No, not Sirius. _Fish_.»

The boy stared at her.

«That wasn't funny at all.»

«They removed my funny bone.»

Calvin stared.

«Alright, I'm done attempting to joke», Fish promised. «Have you been here long? Where are your parents?»

«Mom's in Gotham, I think. The city people came and took us away because she was… Ill. And me and my brother we had appendicitis, so we had to come here to get surgery. But doctor Dulmacher says I have a case of complications and I have to stay a bit longer.»

Fish felt the blood drain from her face. The kid was not a patient. He was a donor. And so was his brother, if she had to guess.

«So when did you arrive?»

«I dunno. Weeeeeks. I think. There's no school, so I don't know.»

«And your brother? When did you see him last?»

«I dunno. I should go search, too! Before someone sees I'm gone. The nurses are going to be angry at me.»

«You're not supposed to get out of your room?»

«Nah. I have needle things and tubes I'm not _allowed_ to remove.»

«Like mine?» Fish said, pointing at her own catheters with her chin.

«Yeah.»

«I'm not sure you should remove those.»

«It's okay, I'm not ill or anything», Calvin told her as he ran back to the door. «Want me to close this?»

She stared. She did not want him to _go_.

«Yes, please. You should go back to your room», she replied.

He was never going to find his brother. She could have bet her life on it.

«After I find Logan.»

«Before the nurses find you! And you didn't come here, alright? You'd get in trouble. I'm not supposed to see people», she explained with a wink. «I catch people's colds and bugs all the time.»

«D'you? I haven't made you sick, have I?»

«Not a chance. You look very healthy to me. But you know the nurses. They're _strict_.»

The boy swallowed.

«Yeah. I won't tell», he muttered. «Uh, get well soon?»

«I will, I will. You too!»

«Yep! Bye!»

And, just like that, he closed the door and trotted away.

###


	19. Chapter 19

Jim tried to sort through the mess on his desk, all of it entirely owed to Harvey's efforts. His partner had attempted to investigate their cases on his own during Jim's absence, and since he had worked for two, he had spread his personal space accordingly. There were files everywhere, notes to go with them, and the occasional candy wrapper.

It was clear the man had applied himself to the job. Unfortunately, he had found very little, be it on the Stephenson case or the Dollmaker's (the one he had clearly favored). He had also investigated a few leads on the six cold cases Essen had given them, but with no results. No ID on the Asian male whose body had been found with shrapnel wounds similar to Delores'. The list of criminals with bomb-making skills was fifteen pages long, and that was for the ones who were not currently in prison, and were supposed to live in Gotham. Still, they had two bodies possibly connected to the same killer, and Jim had hoped they would find _something_ that linked them. The more they dug, the more it looked like Delores would end up another cold case among Gotham's thousands.

He was piling up all of the research on her murder and abduction when Nygma walked to him.

«Detective Collins' new case might be related to yours», he announced, sharply.

Jim looked up. Ed bit the inside of his cheeks.

«W-what-» he started. «What is-»

He stopped himself again, closing his eyes to focus.

«The body of a young woman was found cut in pieces and buried in various parts of the woods, south of the city. Now, the ME doesn't have all the pieces yet - the head still has to be found, among other things - but shrapnel was removed from a shoulder and an arm. You m-may want to see with detective Collins.»

Jim stared at him. He was so tense he was shaking, teeth clenched in anger. His hands were balled into fists.

«Ed… Are you _alright_?» the cop asked, worried.

«ImallrightI'mjust _trying_ to make some _efforts_ here!»

«Efforts?»

«With the _silly_ riddles _thing_ », Nygma hissed. «I've had _comments_.»

Jim cautiously leaned forward. He had always thought the young man was quirky. His blurting out riddles could get mildly annoying, but the cop had never really paid attention to them. It had never occurred to him that they could be not merely a passion, but an actual compulsion Nygma suffered of. He had no idea what to say, but tried all the same.

«Hey. I… You… I mean, I was always okay with the riddles. I don't mind them at all. Now, if _you_ mind them and want to stop… That's fine, but don't stress yourself over it. It's okay.»

Ed ground his teeth and didn't answer, but his eyes shot daggers. Jim moved back, hesitating. The scientist took a deep breath, then his eyes strayed to Jim's desk. His arm shook as if restraining a punch.

«W-what…»

He hit his leg with his balled fist.

«W-what - justshutpshutup - _what_ starts with 'e' and ends with 'e' and contains one letter?» he recited.

Jim stared at him. Ed didn't want an answer to that. What he clearly wanted was to never have uttered the question. He ran a hand through his hair, face twisted in self-loathing. The cop tried to take his hand.

«Ed…»

«An _envelope!_ » the scientist snapped, gesturing at a white rectangle on Jim's desk.

Then he all but ran away, in long, fast strides. The blond only paused for a second before giving chase. He caught up with Nygma in the records annex. The man was hunched against a sorting cabinet. You couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying.

«Hey», Jim murmured when he managed to compose himself and stand up straight.

Ed pursed his lips.

«Another beautiful show by _riddleman_!» he railed, face twisted in a rictus.

«C'mon. I swear it isn't as bad as you think.»

«Well I don't know, _detective_. How about we switch places so you can confirm? Wouldn't that be _hilarious_? Oh, look, it's Jim Gordon. He's so _weird_.»

Jim sighed.

«I know it's not nearly the same, but I've had the odd complaint about anger management. And being an ass. And for what it's worth, if we were to switch places, I'd be totally overwhelmed by suddenly being smart.»

«My, aren't you funny today! I guess a case of the 'smart' _would_ be a life-altering event for you, but you could achieve that by trading places with a chimpanzee. No offense.»

Jim swallowed, frozen, the mean look on Edward's face reminding him of Barbara for an instant. But Ed was just hurt and lashing out.

«Come on… I didn't mean… I mean, if you don't feel that good.. Maybe we could grab a drink this evening? I don't promise I'm a good conversationalist, but I think I can manage proper crime scene discussions.»

«A drink.»

«Yeah? Maybe with Harvey, if he's free?»

Ed chuckled, then pursed his lips and grew serious.

«Does it look like I'm in need of you _pity_ , detective?» he replied, walking to the exit.

He slammed the door as he left.

Jim stood alone for nearly five minutes, wondering when and how he could apologize, or if it was a better idea to leave the scientist alone. He didn't manage to find an answer.

He pushed the matter out of his mind and went to Collins instead, to confirm the results of his victim's autopsy. There was indeed shrapnel, though there was no neck nor head to check for injuries similar to Delores Stephenson's. Collins was more or less certain of the identity of the woman. Her hair type and coloring matched those of a recently reported missing Hispanic girl, as well as some moles and scars on the recognizable body parts. Her name was Sabrina Bakerton, a young coffee shop employee who had - as far as her family knew - left her apartment and fiancee on a whim, vanishing with her clothes and her cat so she could get a «break». She had sent an email to her mother, from her home computer, to tell her she would be staying in a motel for a few weeks as she reconsidered her relationship with her boyfriend. Two weeks later, they had received her suicide note by post. They had already reported her missing by that point.

It was exactly like Delores Stephenson. A fake trip, fake correspondence, and a violent death days after that.

He ran back to his desk to share the news with Harvey.

«We have a serial», he announced. «New girl, kept for days, our abductor sent messages to her family so they would think she was traveling. Collins-»

«Wait, wait, let me fetch the cap', I have a feeling you're going to be repeating it all.»

Jim nodded and watched him walk into Sarah's office. He turned away, looking down at his desk, and spotted the envelope that had caused the whole scene with Edward. It was addressed to him, but there was no stamp, so someone had deposited it in person.

He opened it. News clippings fell out of it, along with a post it. He spread them out in front of him, going pale as he recognized articles on the vigilante killing that had exposed his and Harvey's failed case. A short message was scribbled on the post it.

«You got out of it this time, but it's not the only time you fucked up», it said. «The next time I nail you, you won't be that lucky.»

###

The plan was simple.

Butch had hired twelve men. Paul's wife, Janet, was to get out of their mansion at half past five to go to her yoga session, leaving the place to their guards. Paul had provided floor plans, on which he had drawn the patrol paths, the location of the security cameras, and the emplacement of every armored door. He had also informed them of the brand and model of said doors, which had put the locksmith of the team in an extremely good mood. The vault in itself would prove a bit more difficult to open, but nothing that couldn't be solved with explosives. They knew how fast the police and security firm reinforcements would arrive. They knew how many guards were on location. The heist would be easy as pie.

Barbara had insisted to be present, to ensure the paintings wouldn't be damaged during the operation, and there had been some arguing about that. Butch didn't want her there - really - but she had a point about knowing her shit on how to move priceless art without ruining it. They had agreed on letting her join the team once the mansion was secured and the vault open. In the meantime, the two of them would be waiting in one of their three vans.

At twenty-five past five, the team started moving into position, their men getting ready to take out the patrols as soon as Janet would be gone.

At twenty-six past five, Barbara pulled out her disposable phone and gave a call.

Gilzean saw her smile and knew they were fucked. He didn't even have to wait for her to speak.

A woman replied: he could recognize a female voice in the faint echoes he heard from his seat.

«Hello. This is _Samantha_ », Kean announced. «Oh, don't you play that game. We both know full well you know who I am.»

Butch gestured to her.

«What are you _doing_?» he mouthed.

«Like _hell_ you don't see. Well, keep pretending if you want. I was just calling you to tell you what you are doing to Paul is _pathetic_.» - She paused and listened to the answer. - «Oh, come on, _Janet_. Threatening suicide so he won't leave you? That's just _sick_.»

 _Janet_. Janet. _JANET._ Butch was going to kill her.

She kept arguing on the phone, defending a three years old affair, a child on the way, and the reasons why bitter wives who threatened suicide to keep their husbands should maybe act on said threats. Their team waited, waited some more, then realized the lady of the house would _not_ go to yoga after all. Butch was asked if Janet was an acceptable casualty. Barbara grinned to him and nodded, then walked out of the van.

He confirmed that Janet was disposable and followed Barbara out. She quietly walked up to the mansion, listening to their men's progress on a talkie-walkie in one ear, and to her interlocutor's screaming in the other. By that point, she barely had to reply to Janet. She snapped back a few insults as she walked up to the mansion, but Butch could distinctly hear the constant, hysterical shouting of Paul's wife from her phone, even from two steps away.

When they passed the doors of the house, it had been secured, the guards dead or unconscious. You could hear screaming from upstairs - «I will sue you, I will destroy you, you whore» - but the first floor was silent. The assault had gone well, as stealth had been the strategy, and Janet was not aware there were intruders.

Barbara hung up and made her way upstairs. Butch followed her, swearing to himself that he would strangle her later. The sooner, the better.

Locating Janet's bedroom proved easy. The noise of broken glass and upturned furniture gave it away. And the swears. Kean knocked on the door and promptly entered. Janet stared at her, frozen into place. She was still holding an ivory statuette she'd been ready to throw at the wall.

«Hi!» Barbara said with her best smile.

Paul's wife blinked.

«Miss Kean?»

«Yes. Now, I have to start by an apology. There's no Samantha. She doesn't exist. I don't even think Paul could cheat on you if he wanted to, what with his looks…»

Butch stayed back, horrified.

Janet looked at Barbara in utter confusion.

«I beg your pardon?»

«No. Samantha. It was me on the phone. I needed to keep you inside, you see.»

«I-I… I'm sorry?»

«I wanted to talk to you. Believe me, I've been wanting to for _years_ now.»

«What are you doing in my _home_?» Janet snapped, slowly recovering from her shock.

Barbara stopped right in front of her, just at arm's length.

«Do you remember my birthday party? My eighth birthday? The one with the pink balloons and the bouncing castle?»

«Your… What are you _talking about_?»

«You were invited. Now, I'm aware you probably don't remember. But to me? It was a formative event.»

Janet inched back towards the phone.

«Please leave now, or I'm going to call the police», she menaced.

Kean looked down at her watch.

«No point, the silent alarm was triggered four minutes ago. They are already on their way. Now, you _really_ don't remember?»

« _Please_ leave.»

Butch joined his boss and put a hand on her shoulder, hoping to distract her from her plans, but she just slipped away.

«You should have remembered. It was _important_ to me. I'm a grown adult and I still find myself unable to go to sleep at night, thinking about that day.»

Janet had grabbed the phone. Barbara had followed her, staying at the same precise distance.

«What did I _do_?» the house's owner asked.

«You spilled orange juice on my dress.»

«W-»

Janet stopped at that, too stunned and confused to even finish that word. Gilzean was too well acquainted with Barbara to be confused. _Shit_ , he thought. The blonde reached under her vest.

«And you should really, really, _really_ have been less of a clumsy bitch», she snapped, getting her gun and shooting Janet in the face.

The recoil sent her flying back, squeaking. He grabbed her by the hips to keep her from falling.

«WHAT WAS THAT?», he shouted. «What the _hell_ was that?»

«Therapy», Barbara replied, sliding out of his arms. «Now come on, we have a Picasso to steal.»

###


	20. Chapter 20

«You don't touch this», Sarah said. «The vigilante is Alvarez's case. You don't touch this, you don't investigate this, are we clear? Even if you tried, you would not have a clear perspective.»

Harvey watched Jim sink into his chair, jaw clenched, as the captain drove her point in. He was growing worried for the boy. Actually, he was well past worried. He'd thought Jim could soldier through anything, but that theory was being seriously put to the test. Jimbo's life was an endless shitstorm, and it was clear it was chipping away at him. Leslie's abduction. The vigilante intent on crucifying him. Kean. The man was strong, but not not invulnerable.

Jim was staring straight ahead, still as a stone. He hadn't replied, and if Essen was waiting for him to agree with her, she had better have all day.

«Come on, captain», Harvey said. «There has to be some way we can help.»

«Yes, there is. Alvarez asks a question, you answer. Truthfully. You contribute any ideas, any vague hint, any suspicions you may have. But you don't get out there specifically looking after a criminal who is targeting Jim. It's too personal.»

«The Ogre thing was plenty personal we still caught the bastard.»

 _«And it turned out so well for everyone involved»_ , Sarah snapped. Then she saw the empty look on Gordon's face. «Sorry, Jim. I didn't mean...»

«No, it's true», the blond replied. «And it's nothing I haven't heard before. Are we sure he's targeting me? I mean, he could be going after any cops who arrested the wrong person, or does a shitty job.»

«No one he went to the press about, and getting the word out seems to be his goal. I'll still call the other captains, see if they encountered something similar. But, Jim… You made a _mistake_. A horrible mistake, maybe, but just a mistake. There's no shortage of bad cops in Gotham. Killers, drug dealers, moles for the mob… You name the crime, I can name someone. If this was about cleaning the GCPD, you're the last man the vigilante would go after. I really think it's personal.»

Jim wiped his face, eyes lost in the distance.

«And he used my name and credentials to get to his victim, we knew that», he murmured.

There was a lull after that, so Harvey intervened again.

«So, Alvarez works the case, alright. Where's the bastard?»

«On a crime scene. There was a robbery at the Cohen's estate, the wife was killed. He was in the area, I sent him there an hour ago. He should be back s… He _is_ back», she finished, walking away from Harvey's desk to go down the stairs and join Alvarez at the other end of the bullpen.

The detective talked first, causing Sarah to cast a quick, worried glance in Jim's direction. She said a few words - no more than three - and Alvarez resumed talking, gesturing as he gave his explanations. He was _not_ being briefed about the vigilante. He was the one giving the briefing. Essen asked a question. He nodded. She turned to Jim again and sighed.

«What _now_?» the blond muttered, watching the captain make her way to them, followed by Alvarez.

He sank into his chair and turned it towards the stairs so he would get the news - whatever they were - more quickly. Harvey got out of his seat and went to stand next to him. Essen paused in front of them, then collected herself.

«I have bad news», she started. «There was video footage of the robbery and murder at the Cohen's. There's no nice way to say it… Barbara Kean assembled a team and raided the place to steal several paintings. She was the one who killed Janet Cohen. It was not related to the robbery at all. She sought her out and executed her.»

Jim's only reaction was to clench and unclench his fist. It took five more minutes of explanations to get him to utter a «I see».

###

«Can you pick a lock?» Barbara had asked.

Butch really felt like the most used word of his vocabulary was «depends». He could manage simple locks - being born and bred in Gotham taught you uncommon skills - but that was it. And Barbara… Barbara had issues with nuances. She could have been talking about a bike's lock. She could have been talking about an armored door. She could have been talking about a high security lock in a military complex, surrounded by a dozen armed soldiers. She hardly ever provided a context.

So, he had replied: «Depends. What kind?»

To which she had answered : «I'll show you!»

Showing him had involved a ride across town, to an address he was entirely too familiar with. That being said, the apartment door's lock had proved easy enough to pick, even with Butch's limited skills. After he had argued against breaking in for ten minutes, of course. He was still ranting when they entered the flat.

«Just so you know, if I even _suspect_ he's coming home, I'm leaving», he said. «You're on your own. Bullock is a moron and an asshole, but he's a good shot, and he doesn't fool around.»

«He won't be here for hours», Kean replied, dismissive. «He has a full time job.»

She looked around, taking in the mismatched furniture and the rows of half-empty alcohol bottles on the kitchen counter.

«What a mess», she commented.

«I don't know, it was way worse the last time I came. No dirty boxers on the floors. No two months old Chinese take-out on the coffee table…»

She whirled to him, surprised.

«You've been here before?»

«A few times.»

«I didn't know you knew Harvey.»

«I just _told_ you I did.»

«No, I mean, I thought you knew _of_ him, nothing more.»

Butch shrugged.

«He was a good friend of my previous boss. She gave him intel, he gave her intel, things like that. So, you gonna kill him?»

«Depends. Do you like him?» Barbara asked, opening the drawers of the coffee table and digging through the papers she found there.

He thought about it.

He loathed Harvey. That being said, he had to express his opinion in a way that discouraged murder. He searched for words, joining the blonde and watching what she was doing.

«It's more… You know the feeling when there's a woman you like. Well, man in your case, I guess…»

«Woman works too, I'm not picky.»

Butch blinked.

«Alright. _Woman_ you like. Really like. For something like ten years. And you stand by her side and she sees you as her BFF? Brother from another mother? Most trusted lieutenant?»

«Let's assume I ever needed ten years to get into someone's bed.»

«You're a bit of a cunt. Were you ever told you're a bit of a cunt?»

«As a matter of fact…»

«Are you going to let me explain or _what_?»

«I'm sorry. _Please_ continue.»

Butch huffed and let her move on to the TV stand, unwilling to speak. She snooped through boxes of bank statements and bills.

«So imagine that woman starts dating someone else», he ended up saying. «And it's not a great guy. Actually, it's a total shithead. But she loves him. She does. They make each other miserable when they _are_ together, really, and they miss each other like hell when they are _not_ , so they settle for that weird on-off thing where the misery evens out a bit, and they can be genuinely happy to be best friends who fuck.»

«And that 'shithead' is Harvey Bullock.»

«Yep.»

«Heh. There's no accounting for taste.»

«Apparently not.»

Barbara put the boxes back into the TV stand, the lot of them appearing entirely undisturbed.

«So you _don_ _'t_ like him.»

«I don't, but that's not the point. I kind of _hate_ him but not to the extent that I'd want him dead.»

«But you wouldn't mind if I killed him.»

«I _guess_ I wouldn't? But I'd rather you didn't?»

«Duly noted», his boss said, finding a new cupboard to search through.

Butch sighed.

«What is it that you're looking for anyway?»

«I'll know when I find it.»

«You'll know wh… You had nothing planned at all, did you? You're just here in case something interesting turns up.»

She turned to him and grinned.

«Preeeetty much?»

«That's it, I'm out. I'll wait in the car.»

«Stay right here!»

Butch rolled his eyes and stayed, feeling much like her pet dog. She opened every cabinet and every cupboard, inspecting their contents and putting everything back exactly as she had found it (namely, in a fucking mess). He could see she was getting frustrated. He did not comment. To a _sane_ person, it was clear that all Bullock owned was crap, more crap, and maybe a spare gun. Keyword there being «sane».

Barbara still managed to find an envelope filled with old polaroids, well hidden under old books and magazines, in one of the nightstands' drawers.

«Is that her, by any chance?» she asked, handing him one of the pictures. «The woman?»

He shivered as pins and needles ran through his every scar. It was. The picture really brought you back, too. Fish's hair had not been long and curly in nearly ten years, and the clothes screamed eighties. She was rolling her eyes at the camera and gesturing for the photographer to go away, one of her hands blurry.

Butch felt faint, grief hitting him square in the stomach.

He kept his voice casual.

«Yes.»

«You can do better.»

«That's your opinion, lady.»

«Well, for a start, you could do _me_.»

«I stand by my point.»

The blonde started pouting, putting the polaroid back into its envelope.

«You know, that constant rejection might end up hurting me. Don't go breaking my heart!»

Elton John. Fine. He could play that game too.

« _I couldn_ _'t if I tried_ », he retorted, earning a smile.

He couldn't help it. He smiled back.

«Now come on. He _will_ kill us both if he catches us, and I want to enjoy some of that heist's money. Let's go.»

«Alriiiight. You're a bit of a killjoy. Were you ever told you're a bit of a killjoy?»

«As a matter of fact…» he piped back, ushering her out.

She followed him willingly, ran back in to fetch her purse - that she had somehow forgotten - _then_ finally let herself be led to the car. She was (blissfully) silent for a whole ten minutes, focused on looking at her bare feet. She had put them on the dashboard, and was wriggling her toes, inspecting her black nail polish.

«So, is it common, cops exchanging intel with Mafia bosses?» she asked.

«You mean, like Bullock and Fish?»

«Yes! I get the feeling that's what Cobblepot is trying to get from Jim.»

«I think even Cobblepot doesn't realize what he is trying to get from Jim. Just saying.»

«I have a faint idea of what you are implying. Please don't imply that.»

«I wouldn't dare.»

She raised her eyebrows. He smirked.

«More seriously», she continued, «if cop informants are a thing, I want my own. You are getting me one.»

«I'm sorry. Do you somehow think they are sold at Walmart?»

Barbara glared at him.

«You know full well what I _mean_.»

«I'm _not_ going to Gordon to ask him to become your informant. He ain't fond of me, in case you didn't remember. I value my health.»

«Not _JIM_. I want to destroy his life and shatter his mind. That's not very compatible with flirty information brokering, is it?»

«So what am I supposed to do? Put up a job offer in the GCPD? 'Busty blonde recruiting horny cop with rocks for brains'?»

«You are difficult. Why are you always difficult? Haven't you learned by now that my plans work?»

« _Only because I_ _'m here to translate 'crazy' into logistics!_ »

«And the job offer thing is not necessary. I have someone in mind.»

###

Jim went back to Leslie's well past midnight, after an evening spent learning Harvey's most efficient problem solving technique: alcoholism. His partner had dragged him out for drinks at the end of the day, and dragged him out of the bar after deciding it had been a bad idea. Then he had driven him to Leslie's building with the promise to pick him up in the morning, so they could retrieve his car.

Harvey seemed to believe Jim felt down. Actually, he felt so angry he could barely keep it in. The rage was overwhelming and he had no outlet, so he had attempted to drink himself into numbness instead. It had worked, but only partially. He wanted to punch things instead of shooting them. He was more or less convinced he wouldn't kill Barbara on sight, though he had no idea what _else_ he would do to her. Arrest her. He was supposed to arrest her. Not choke the life out of her.

Life was not the right term, really. Barbara was dead and gone.

Lee was already sleeping, so he took a brief shower and slipped into bed, wrapping himself around her. He did try not to wake her, but she still turned to him, propping herself up on an elbow.

«Sorry», he muttered. «Didn't want to wake you.»

«It's fine, I was up», she lied, kissing him.

She froze for an instant, because she could smell the vodka, but she was tactful about it.

«How was your day?»

He closed his eyes and pulled her close, burying his face against her shoulder. The cut on her throat was still a bit sore, or so he thought.

«Tell you tomorrow», he murmured.

He held on, unable to let her go. He would have to leave her, and soon. Barbara _would_ get to her. She had walked straight into a mansion protected by the best crew private security had to offer, men that could have made a career in special forces, without the slightest trouble. She had shot Janet Cohen at point-blank. She'd been gone minutes before the police could get there. All of that through the power of money and guns.

«Alright», Lee answered, holding him close.

He really had no idea how he would gather the will to leave. It was the last thing he wanted to do.

He lifted his head and kissed her, softly, then crushed his lips against her and rolled over her, the rage slipping away, replaced by need and fear. Mostly need. She kissed him back and arched against him.

###


	21. Chapter 21

«So when is it you go?» Harvey asked Leslie, after following her into the exam room.

She was supposed to be on medical leave, between her injuries and the «psychological trauma» she was expected to be suffering from. She had declared herself bored, and dropped by the precinct to say hello to everyone. And everyone had been glad to see her. She'd been swarmed by coworkers from the moment she had walked into the bullpen, to the point that Jim nearly had to stand in queue to get to kiss her. That had been fun to watch.

She opened a cabinet, checking that her supplies were properly ordered. She obviously didn't agree with her replacement's sorting preferences, because she frowned and pulled a jar out, then forced herself to put it back.

«In three days», she replied. «In the morning.»

He hadn't pegged her as the kind who'd run. Then again, she had a lot on her plate, and it was only for four days. «Forensic science conference», she had said. In New York. And she had made a point to be overly enthusiastic about it, the kind of enthusiastic about crime you expected from Edward Nygma. She was coming back. Still, Harvey wasn't blind to the growing awkwardness between her and Jim, and to the amount of make up she had plastered on her face to cover the circles under her eyes.

«Well I hope it will be fun. You know, about as much as learning how to bed dissect a body can get.»

«It's not about autopsies! It's a toxicology thing.»

«To be used during autopsies.»

«Alright, it's about autopsies.»

He chucked, then there was a lull in the conversation. She grew serious.

«Can I ask for something?»

«Yeah?»

«Can you be there for Jim while I'm gone?»

Harvey rolled his eyes. _Because the rest of the time I_ _'m not?_

«Lee.»

«I know, I know, I don't mean you're not there for him all the time. It's just… I'm _worried_ , Harvey. He's in a dark, dark place… And I can't reach him at all. I'm trying. I can't.»

The detective sighed.

«Yeah, that's not my problem so why don't you tell him that?»

She stared him down.

«Alright, I'm listening», he amended.

She could be the hell of a scary lady.

«Things are not good right now, at all. There's the vigilante, and there's everything on the job… And Barbara. There's Barbara.»

«Thompkins. You _know_ I don't want the run down of your problems, I don't give a shit, don't cry on my shoulder. Just tell me what you want me to _do_.»

«He's angry. He has given me the details of everything that has happened, but it was just that, a _report_. He won't share what it does to him, but I can see he's angry. A kind of angry that has me _scared_.»

«Oh Jesus. You had to go and listen to the crazy bitch. He's not going to snap and hurt y-»

«Of course he isn't.»

«Then what the hell are you ranting about?»

Leslie hesitated. She started saying something, stopped herself, took a deep breath.

«Am I silly for being afraid of _Barbara_? She was so, so good at poisoning the well from her cell in Arkham. I'm terrified of what she'll do now. Because you were there that night, when she woke up. You saw what she's like. And it terrifies me - _terrifies_ , I don't have a better word - to _know_ she'll be going after Jim in the state he's in now. She will _destroy_ him. She _knows_ him.»

Harvey clenched his teeth and said nothing because there was nothing to say. She was right.

«And I can't _reach_ him», Leslie continued. «Because he's afraid for me and because he feels guilty, so he won't let me in. I _hate_ it, but I can't do a thing. I was hoping _you_ could.»

«I'm _trying_. What kind of fucking miracles do you think I can work?»

«With Jim? Pretty much all of them.»

He froze.

«No pressure at all», he replied after a long silence.

«You know what I mean. You're his lifeline. Have been from the moment you met him. If someone can help him now, it's you.»

Harvey sighed.

«I'll see what I can do. Getting him to shoot crap should be a nice start, I guess. Maybe picking a fight with bikers in some seedy bar.»

Lee stared at him, wide eyed.

«That last part is a joke, right? Forget it, I don't want to know.»

The cop chuckled.

«No you d-»

His phone rang. He picked up, since the conversation was all but done anyway.

He was told something. It sounded insane, and didn't register.

«I'm sorry», he said. «Can you repeat that?»

###

«Really, Crispus. This conversation could have been _entirely_ civil», Butch said. «Did you _have_ to draw your gun?»

The cop moaned from his spot on the floor, because kicks to the groin would do that to you.

Gilzean crouched.

«I mean, I just wanted to talk. We've talked before. We're, like, practically best pals. So you need to chill out.»

«Fuck you», Allen gasped between pants. «Don't break into people's homes if you don't want a gun in your face. And tell Cobblepot he can go fuck himself.»

Butch blinked.

«Oh right. I guess you don't know. I don't work for Oswald anymore. So when I say my boss wants to talk to you, I mean 'Barbara Kean' wants to talk to you. Sorry for the confusion. Think you can stand?» he asked, helping the cop up.

Allen was still in pain but didn't whine at all. He stood and wiped his forehead. He was barely even hunched.

«Kean? Wait… _Barbara Kean_?»

«Yeah. You know, pretty socialite, Arkham escapee, newbie crime lady.»

«What the hell does she want with me?»

«You, nothing. But we can't find Montoya. Miss Kean has some intel she'd like to share, see, but she'll only share with friends. Except Montoya is nowhere to be found and we're growing concerned.»

«Well, you can keep looking. If you find her, give me a call. We've been searching very hard ourselves.»

«Meaning?»

«Meaning - and the guys on your payroll on the force would have told you that in one phone call -she's missing. Has been for days. She was undercover, we lost contact.»

«Aw _fuck_. I'm supposed to bring her back alive and in good health. That's not gonna fly. Who was she spying on?»

«Do me a favor and find yourself another mole.»

Butch sighed. People always _had_ to make things difficult. He would have been happy to keep things friendly, too. He didn't want blood on his suit. He'd just gotten it dry cleaned.

He kneed Crispus in the stomach.

«Allow me to repeat the question.»

###

It was difficult, overly difficult, to find competent henchmen. You couldn't get it all: the fighting skills, the obedience, and the brains. Brains were a particularly rare commodity, which explained why he walked into his living room and found Barbara Kean having tea with Miriam and his mother.

«The trick is to use conditioner», Kean was saying, playing with Miriam's hair. «And it will take some time to get your hair nice and shiny, but you will look just _lovely_ once it is repaired. I will tell Oswald which brand to buy for you. It's very specific. Don't let him get anything less.»

Heads nearly rolled. Frightening his mother was out of the question, however. Oswald forced a smile on.

«Miss Kean. I didn't expect you today.»

The lunatic gave him a brilliant commercial smile.

«I had some business to discuss - art related - and I was in such a hurry that I forgot to give you a call. I'm so sorry. I can wait some more, or come back tomorrow, if you'd prefer.»

Both Miriam and his mother appeared charmed and in perfect health, which was surprising considering Kean's last visit, not to mention her little show at the Cohen's.

«I'm sure we can discuss those matters today, right now, in my office. I wouldn't want to make you wait.»

«Oh! Thank you so much. Just a second», she said, getting a notepad - not a knife - from her purse, and scribbling some words on a sheet she neatly tore off and gave to Miriam. «This brand. No other. And make sure to follow the instructions on the bottle precisely.»

The girl nodded eagerly, holding the note like a precious treasure. Kean gave one last caress to her hair and moved away.

«It was a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Kapelput. It had been entirely too long.»

Oswald watched in bewilderment as Gertrude hugged the sociopath as her oldest friend.

«I'm so glad my boy is doing business with such a nice girl as you. I hope he can help you with the gallery.»

«I hope so too. Have a nice day. Good bye, Miriam.»

She joined Oswald, who stared at her, baffled. He showed her the door.

«To my office», he snapped.

He was still confused when they entered the room. He locked the door. He put on some music. Then he started shouting.

«YOU ARE NOT TO EVEN BE IN THE SAME _BLOCK_ AS MY MOTHER, LET ALONE THE SAME ROOM. ARE WE CLEAR?»

«Oh, come on, I hadn't seen Gertrude in decades. She's such a sweet, eccentric lady.»

He crossed the room and pushed her against a wall.

«NEVER. GO. NEAR. HER. AGAIN!» he spat.

Kean rolled her eyes and slipped away.

«If you insist.»

She twirled and… Frolicked, maybe? To the desk. She sat on its edge.

«What _is_ this feeling so _sudden_ and _new_ I felt the moment I laid eyes on you?»*

«I'm sorry? What are you babbling about _now?_ »

She stood and covered her cheeks with her hands.

«My pulse is rushing… My head is reeling…»

He _was_ going to kill her. That was the kind of sick humor he was not fond off. He had heard enough of it, especially from pretty girls.

«My face is _flushing_ », she continued, acting confused. «What _is_ this feeling? Fervid as a flame… Does it have a _name?_ »

He quietly retrieved his gun. She whirled to him and snapped her fingers.

«Yes! Yes! _Loathing_. Unadulterated loathing.»

«Miss Kean, I do believe you wish to die. Do you w-»

«For your face», she said, pointing. «You _voice_. Your…» - Her eyes inspected his suit and stopped on his necktie. - «Clothing? Let's just say… I loathe it all!»

He pressed the barrel of the gun to her forehead.

«I can safely say the feeling is mutual. Now, sit, and pray whatever sick divinity allowed you to exist to convince me not to check if you have as little brains as I believe you do.»

«Aw, you are no fun at all», she moaned, taking a seat. «Back to business, then?»

Oswald circled the desk and sunk into his office chair.

«You have exactly one minute to convince me and save your sorry hide.»

«Alright. Can you launder money? I recently acquired a Picasso, I have a buyer, but I could use a few dozen fake businesses to receive his money and turn it into untraceable cash. Now, I already have a partner who gets a sixty percent share. It's a Picasso. You get what you can take. Still! I get twenty percent, you get twenty percent, and twenty percent is still that many zeros», she explained, lifting several fingers.

He stared at her.

After a few moments, she waved a hand under his nose to snap him out of it.

###

«So», Gertrude asked, when Oswald joined her after his conversation with the blonde maniac. «Will you be working with the _lovely_ Miss Kean?»

«Yes. It appears I will. She had a most lucrative deal to offer. Still, she's unlikely to visit again.»

«That's a shame. She's so very _pretty_.»

«She's a common harlot, mother.»

«Don't you say such things! She is _so_ nice, I won't have my boy insulting a nice lady!»

Had the world been turned upside down? Oswald cringed, composed himself, and nodded.

«I'm sorry, mother. I believe I might have gotten the wrong impression. But I'm curious. Have you met her before? You seemed very familiar.»

«Oh, I hadn't seen her since she was a little girl. Your father knew the Kean family. They did _business_.»

Gertrude looked aside for a moment. His father was never discussed. Oswald redirected.

«A little girl, you say?»

«Yes. We went to her birthday party. You wouldn't remember. You were small. A baby, nearly. But I remember it well. It was a _grand_ affair. Very beautiful, everything. _Actresses_ playing fairies.»

It sounded exactly like the kind of insufferably overblown party the bitch would have gotten.

«It must have been very fun», he said, neutrally.

«Oh, it was, for all of the children. But… It was _so_ sad. I didn't talk very good English back then, so the other parents had to explain to me, and I thought I had translated it wrong.»

«Sad? At a… Six years old's birthday party?»

«Well. It was a _scandal_ , because… Little Barbara wasn't there, you see. She stained her dress, when it started - the party, I mean», Gertrude explained, shaking her head. «So her mother got angry and sent her to her room.»

«I'm sorry?»

«She sent her to her room. Because she had dirtied her pretty dress. That poor little girl was not allowed to come back.»

Oswald blinked. That explained a few things.

«Well, people have been killed for less, I suppose», he mused.

His mother's eyes went wide.

«What do you mean?» she exclaimed in a panic.

«Nothing, mother. It's a figure of speech. I mean that it was very, very cruel way to treat such a young child.»

###


	22. Chapter 22

Harvey got out of his car and looked up at his apartment, taking in the cloud of black smoke streaming out of his kitchen and bedroom's windows. Well, «windows» was not exactly the term anymore. «Gaping holes» sounded more like it. The walls were cracked and blackened with soot. Firemen, on a lift, were fighting the dying flames.

«Holy shit», the cop murmured as Jim, who had been driving, joined him. «Think there's any chance my records survived that?»

From the looks of it, not a snowflake's chance in hell. His partner put a hand on his shoulder.

«What the _hell_ happened?» Harvey shouted, shock turning to anger. «How the fuck does that happen?»

Fifteen years in that place. It was filthy and small and would have needed to be renovated back in the seventies, but it was _home_.

«You left the stove on», a girl's voice chimed in.

He whirled to the teenager.

«Kyle. What have you done _now_?»

«Me? _Me?_ Me! I _called the fire department_ , that's what I did! I dropped by 'cause I wanted a shower and I smelled gas when I opened the window, so I went to call _them_ », she snapped, pointing at the firetruck. «Except the idiots got there too late. Your upstairs neighbor walked by your door with a smoke. Didn't turn out so good for him. He's a bit singed.»

«Could be a gas leak», Jim pointed out.

He was still watching the fire, in full blown detective mode. Harvey rolled his eyes.

«Of course it's a leak. I don't cook.»

«Nope, it was the stove», Selina insisted. «I did some listening when the insurance guys arrived. The firemen say the stove was on.»

«Yeah, I've spent the whole week at Scottie's, so you won't pin this on me. You sure you didn't cook yourself something when you dropped by to take that shower? Because it sounds like you're in my flat more often than I am.»

«What the hell was I going to cook? Your one jar of mayo?»

« _CASE IN POINT._ I don't use the damn stove!»

«Maybe we should just go see what the fire department has to say», Jim cut in, nearly getting himself punched in the face.

Harvey did not want any logic or common sense. He wanted to shout at someone not to have to focus on the disaster his life had become. Everything he _owned_ up in flames.

They still went to talk to the firemen, and the landlord, and the insurers, and sure enough, it _was_ the stove, which made no sense. The detective argued they got it wrong, threw a few suspicious glances at Kyle, and listened to the explanations. The stove was turned on - the firemen who had walked into the place had found it in pieces, but with a control knob turned to the max. The damage to the burner showed the stove _had_ been on when the place had caught fire. They _could_ be wrong, the fire department guy said, and they would check once the place would be safe to enter, but it looked like an open and close case.

It made no sense at all, since Harvey had not been home in five days, unless you accused the most likely culprit.

«I told you I had nothing to do with it!» Kyle snapped when he managed to get his hands on her.

«Are you _real_ sure? Because I don't see who else it could have been.»

«Selina», Jim intervened. «We're not going to be angry. We're glad you are safe - you could have been blown to bits when you opened that window - but if you _had_ something to admit, it would save us a lot of investigating.»

«It's. Not. Me.»

«Alright», the blond said, unconvinced.

« _I_ _'m_ not the washed out alcoholic, by the way. Maybe he did cook and doesn't remember.»

« _I wasn_ _'t there_ », Harvey repeated.

Jim raised a finger to shut them up and walked back to the fire truck. There was some talking, some bartering, some threatening, some backing off (all of it Jim's). Voices were raised, endangering men mentioned, then one of the firefighters grabbed one of the others as he climbed off the lift. Jim listened intently. One of the firemen asked something on his radio, and Gordon waited for the answer, rocking on his heels. Harvey and the brat watched the scene in silence, both curious of the results. Then Jim walked back to them.

«Someone broke in», he announced. «The lock was picked. It's not Selina, she's a climber.»

Harvey felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

The kid put her hands on her hips.

«Told you!»

###

Working for a lunatic with no scruples had its perks. Namely, Barbara had found them a nice, fancy place uptown, a large designer loft complete with hot tub and memory foam mattresses. After sleeping in a chair for _days_ in that cramped bedroom (Kean would have shared the bed, but Butch still thought it was safer to decline), those luxuries felt like paradise. The flat had been borrowed from Patrick Howell, who was known to date an escort and to be renting a discreet place in town so his wife would not find out. Howell was out on the country on a three weeks business trip, which had left his girlfriend at risk for home invasions. «No one will miss a prostitute», Barb' had pointed out while they were tying the girl up and locking her into the laundry room. They were now her impromptu roommates.

Of course, working for a lunatic with no scruples also had its disadvantages. One of them being coming «home» to an empty apartment, a dead whore with a slit throat, and a post-it telling you «kept weeping, grated on my nerves. Please dispose of the body. 3 3».

He took a long look at the note then dropped into one of Patrick Howell's luxurious leather sofas, and sighed.

She was tiring. She was so very tiring. It was not unlike working for Fish. On crack.

And of course, just like with Fish, he didn't feel like leaving.

He allowed himself ten minutes of quiet, then he called Kean.

«Boss. Where _are_ you?»

«Downtown! There's a fire, I wanted to see.»

 _Wonderful._

«Why didn't you _wait_ for me? And how did you even get downtown? I had the car.»

«I took the bus, silly.»

«I'm sorry?»

«The bus. You know? Public trans-»

«What are you even _doing_ in town? You're a criminal on the run!»

«I'm right at home in Gotham, then. And don't worry. I'm wearing a disguise.»

Butch closed his eyes to collect himself. She was going to drive him insane. Arguably, she had done that. He had not fled, and he could not entirely blame that on his fear of Zsasz.

«Did you get rid of the body?» she asked.

«Not yet.»

«Listen, if you get a cleaner - you know, like in Nikita? - don't let him put acid in the bathtub. I plan to use it again!»

Gilzean pictured her dead, skull bashed in. It helped a little.

«Did you find Renee?», she asked, not waiting for his answer.

He paused.

«Err… I have bad news. She's missing. Presumed dead. Undercover gig went south.»

«Oh. Oh. Well, that's a bummer, I guess», Kean replied, immediately switching topics. «I think Jim is being stalked.»

«Wait, what, _Jim_?»

«Yes! Every time I stalk him, I see that other blond guy following him around.»

«Don't stalk _Gordon!_ »

«Don't tell me what to do! I'm the boss. Aren't I the boss?»

«You won't be anyone's boss if he arrests you! Where _are_ you? I'm picking you up!»

«Why do you always have to be so difficult? I'm on Bullock's street.» - Where there was that _fire_ she wanted to see. - «I'll meet you in front of that deli on the corner. And take a man with you. I want someone to keep an eye on that possible stalker. I wouldn't want Jim to be in danger.»

He tried to picture her dead and strangled, and it didn't help at all.

The next images that sprang to his mind helped even less, and he wasn't _killing_ her in them.

###

Barb's disguise was admittedly not bad, because Butch did not recognize her when she climbed into the car. She was wearing dirty, threadbare jeans and a washed out Cardinals hoodie. All he had seen, when he had parked next to the deli, was some broke junkie smoking a cigarette. She held herself like one, hunched and sullen, face hidden under her hood, behind a veil of matted hair. She had botched her make-up on purpose, making her lips thinner and their color garish, and haphazardly plastering blue powder on her eyelids.

It was a good disguise. The man he'd brought had nearly shot her when she opened the car door, for a start.

She sank into the passenger seat and stretched.

«Why is Bullock's apartment in shambles?» Butch asked, though he did not really need an answer.

«Gas leak, I think.»

«You think.»

«Yes. See the blue Audi?»

Butch groaned and looked around. Sure enough, a blue Audi was parked a few spots away.

«Yeah.»

«It's to be followed. I want to know everything about the driver. And you should have taken two cars, mister Logistics. I _told_ you there would be tailing involved.»

 _Right._ Gilzean stared into the distance, drove to the next street, double-parked, then handed the car keys to the thug sitting on the backseat.

«You heard the lady», he said, getting out of the car. «Blue Audi, report to me, don't lose the guy.»

Then Barbara got him to take the bus. It was a long ride and nobody died, which was an accomplishment. She didn't shoot anyone on the walk back to the loft, either, which was good.

She didn't shut up for a _second_. He longed, longed, _longed_ to crush her against a wall and to kiss her into silence.

###

Jim kissed Lee, and kissed her again, paying no heed to the stares every passerby on the platform was giving them. He was getting used to kissing Leslie in public, and really enjoying it, if he had to be honest.

«You're learning!» she said with a grin. «I didn't even have to ask!»

He flushed and cleared his throat but smiled back.

«Hereby proving that I _can_ be taught. Don't tell Harvey.»

She chuckled.

«I won't. Oh my god! Do I have the list? I think I forgot the list!» she exclaimed, patting her pockets.

«Inside pocket of your purse, the left one.»

«Thank God», she muttered, pulling The List out of her bag.

One hundred seventy-four vinyl records left to find. An extensive search of every music shop in Gotham had brought it down from three hundred forty-six, and Scottie was keeping the results of their treasure hunt well hidden in her attic. She had compiled the list, when she had helped Harvey to dispose of the remains of his possessions, stealing his collection of albums from the container where they had thrown everything. It had taken her a few hours of handling charred, twisted records, but she had written down every title, along with a description of the cover.

They were now trying to find them all.

Harvey was freaking out about his collection. He now owned the clothes he had been wearing when his apartment had burned down, two pants and three shirts that had been at Scottie's, and his car. That was it. There had been nothing left to salvage from the flat. But all Bullock focused on was the records. Jim supposed that he _had to_ , not to have to take in everything at once. His partner had stayed at Scottie's for a few days, and would be sleeping on Leslie's couch during her absence, as he was panicking at the idea of actually moving in with his significant other.

«I'm not you, asshat», he had told Jim. «I need my own place. I can't pull the locker room to girlfriend's and back thing you do.»

Scottie was taking that with grace and tender chuckling, which clearly indicated Harvey had found the One (at least, that was Leslie's conclusion).

«Okay. So. I have the whole afternoon free once I arrive in New York», Leslie said. «I _think_ I can cover at least five stores, I just have to drop my suitcase at my uncle's before that. I'll call you if I find something.»

«Or, you know, you could call me to let me know the trip went well and-»

«Of course I will!» she cut in, kissing him again. «It just goes without saying.»

«It does.»

He tried not to let her go, but the platform was getting crowded. The train was about to leave, and people were running to its doors, bumping into them in their haste. Leslie moved back and grinned, pointing at the train.

«Talk to you in a few hours», she said, pecking him on the cheek and making her way to the train's doors.

He helped haul her suitcase in, and watched the doors close over her, and watched the train leave. Her uncle would be waiting for her in New York, would collect her straight from the station's platform. And he would be grafted to her hip for the entire week-end. She would be safe. Safer than in Gotham, anyway. It was a relief. He still spent five minutes processing the idea, standing in place on the platform. Then he returned to the precinct.

They had too many things to deal with at once and were making no progress. It was horrifying.

Vigilante? «Possibly a cop considering how he proceeded when he used your name to get information to prepare that murder», Alvarez had announced.

There was a possibility - a slight, very slight possibility - that the killer was responsible for the explosion at Harvey's, but Jim had a sinking feeling it was most likely Barbara's doing. Unexpected failed murder attempts seemed to be her thing.

Then there was the Dollmaker case. They had looked into everything under the sun. Potential patients, medical supplies sellers, missing persons reports… Harvey had gotten a friend of a friend of a friend to «procure» flight plans for some of the private jets and helicopters leaving Gotham. He was pouring his soul into that investigation and slowly, subtly losing chunks of it. It was Harv'. It didn't show at all until it hit you in the face.

«We'll find him», Jim had told his friend, not saying her because the chances of finding _Fish_ were slim to none.

If the Dollmaker had indeed captured her, she was probably long gone, either executed in revenge or sold by the organ to the highest bidder. Jim still hoped to find the boys and to stop the human trafficking.

«I don't give a _fuck_ about that bastard» Harvey had replied. «What I want is to _know_ she's dead. I _need_ to know she's dead.»

That had been the end of the conversation, but Jim had spent six hours straight studying satellite imagery of every island in a two hundred miles radius. He had circled a few dozen and was still checking who lived there, and what the buildings on them were.

The last thing was the Stephenson-Bakerton case. They had put the word out, with the help of Sarah. Every unit knew about the MO of the killer, based on the two - possibly three - victims' disappearances and deaths. Ed was digging through the archives to find similar cases. They had been questioning the friends and coworkers of Delores and Sabrina for days.

One of them had proved hard to contact, but Harvey had finally managed to get her to the precinct when Jim arrived. His partner was talking with her.

«Yeah, she left in the middle of her shift, and in the next twenty minutes we got an email saying 'I quit', but come on, we're barely a step above fast food. It's not flipping burger, but it's not the job of your life. It would not have been the first employee to drop everything. You wouldn't believe the turnover rate.»

«Anything special happened that day, or the days before? Did anyone show interest in her?» Jim asked.

«She was _pretty_. Every guy flirted with her. It annoyed her to hell and back, too. She was talking marriage with her boyfriend, so she didn't want the interest.»

«Please think about it. Maybe someone stood up from the lot. Someone older? Creepier? Not the kind of clientele you usually get? Overly aggressive, maybe?»

«Once again, 'one step above fast food'. We see people of every kind.»

«Just try to remember», Harvey pressed.

«No one creepy that day. She had the one _hot_ , and I mean John Stamos hot customer flirt with her for a while. I mean, I remember looking at the guy and thinking 'wow, someone out of her league'. Heads turned. But he wasn't creepy. He was super nice and polite. He tried to get her number for a while.»

«Did he give his?»

«No, not that I know of.»

«Are you one of those place that puts the names on the cups when people order?»

«Yeah. David. I think his name was David.»

The woman frowned.

«Might be relevant, because you talk about explosive necklaces… He was wearing a scarf. White, very thick. I remember because we were roasting in the kitchen and I thought a scarf was insane.»

Jim and Harvey exchanged a look. That was more than relevant. They got a description, let the woman leave, and returned to the missing persons reports.

«John Stamos hot, early forties, now let's hope his name is _actually_ David», Bullock grunted as they flipped through the piles of photocopies.

Half an hour passed, then Jim froze and held out one of the sheets.

«It's actually David», he said. «Banker, sent a suicide note to his brother. He went missing right before Delores.»

«I'll get in touch with MPU», Harvey replied, grabbing the sheet.

«Yeah, I'll-»

Jim's phone rang, interrupting him. He smiled as he saw Leslie's name on the screen, and picked up.

«Hey. So how was your trip?»

«I have a question», Barbara replied. «You didn't leave her unprotected so far, and suddenly you do, so I'm wondering. Do you somehow think I'm allergic to traveling?»


	23. Chapter 23

«Checkmate!» Miriam exclaimed.

Oswald studied the board, where his king was neatly cornered between a tower and a queen. Of course, he had led the piece there on purpose, but Miriam did not need to know that. She was very happy to be learning a new game. Checkers was still her favorite (most likely because no one could beat her at it), but she tremendously enjoyed chess. She showed great promise.

«Indeed. I'm thoroughly beaten!», Oswald exclaimed, feigning surprise. «It was a good game. Congratulations!»

She beamed, gave a «did you see what I just did?» look to Gabe and Martin, and started putting the pawns back in their place.

«We'll have a rematch, won't we?» she asked.

The crime lord considered it. He had work, endless work, but Miriam had been neglected and locked in an attic for so long that she deserved to be cared for. He nodded, helping her prepare the board. They played in comfortable silence for ten minutes, then the door opened and the young woman lit up.

«Victor!», she exclaimed as the freak entered the room.

She was _blushing_. Oswald didn't like it one bit. That being said, so far, Zsasz had seemed immune to her charms. Oh, he liked her, and would run to her as soon as Oswald turned his back, but he seemed to be assuming a mentor's position. He had taught Miriam how to lay rabbit snares in the park, and installed bird feeders close to the trees so she could slaughter the fauna to her heart's content. She had started making wind chimes out of squirrel bones.

Oswald heaved.

«Victor. What brings you?»

The creep smiled to Miriam, with what he intended as warmth, and ended up as a predatory kind of awkwardness. Then he turned to his employer.

«Giulia is back», he announced. «She returned to her home, with both the boys. She has a shoulder wound, that's probably what kept her away.»

«I'm sorry, we'll have to continue this later», Cobblepot announced to his hostage. «I'll be back later in the day. I'm sure Martin can play with you in the meantime.»

«WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO WORK? It's not FAIR!»

«Young lady, I will _not_ tolerate tantrums!»

Miriam immediately stilled. She lowered her head, mumbled an apology, then started hissing about her dad and how Oswald was just like him.

He crossed his arms.

She pursed her lips and started sulking.

«Very well, miss, take it that way!» he snapped. «We'll discuss this when I come back. Let's go, Victor.»

They retired to Oswald's office, and Zsasz explained what little he knew of Maroni's return: she had resurfaced at seven in the morning, in a black van, protected by five bodyguards armed with uzis. She had immediately called her lieutenants in.

«She's going to hit back», Oswald said, making a mental list of the underlings he had to contact to protect his territory. «She might attack the mansion. I'll have the security tripled. As for you, my dear friend, the contract is still on. So get out there and work on it.»

###

«It's a joke», Ryan said.

Claudia glared at her manager and pointed at the «HELP» written in mayonnaise on the dinner table. She had found the message under crumbled burger wrappings. Customers would pull that crap every now and then and Ryan would not admit that, just because it was a common prank, you could not just assume it was _always_ one. The man who had been sitting there was a bit too old for jokes, too. He had looked about forty. He had not seemed like the kind to leave a mess either. He had been warm and polite when he had ordered (a Kiddy Box for himself so he could bring the toy car home to his son, and a salad for his grandma).

«Just clean it up», he ordered, «and do your _job_. I don't know if you noticed but we have _other_ customers.»

She frowned.

«Can't we just call the cops and show them? It's not like it will take them long to cross the street! And then I can clean it up and they can check the security tapes and we'll have done a good deed.»

Her boss grabbed a dishcloth and wiped the table.

«Yeah, and maybe they can stay for donuts? Stop wasting my time.»

###

Jim's knees buckled.

«Barbara.»

Harvey froze and turned to him, paling, though not as much as Jim himself. The blond felt like the ground had been pulled from under him. His ears were ringing, and he could hear his own heartbeat.

«Don't hang up!», Barbara warned. «I hear it's not a good idea to cut negotiations short.»

The cop took a long, shivering breath, while his partner ran into Sarah's office to explain the situation in hushed whispers.

«Negotiations.»

«Well, you know how it goes. I'm a criminal, this is a hostage situation, I believe this is the part where you do as I say so I let her go intact. Well, it's a bit too late for 'intact', I guess, so let's settle for 'alive'.»

He put the phone on speaker as Harvey and Essen joined him.

«What have you _done_?» Jim forced out, his throat clenched.

«What do you _think_?»

Years of history - awkward first dates between a soldier on leave and a shy, pretty socialite; tender one-year-in evenings watching TV in a designer sofa with bare, soft legs sliding over his thighs to tempt his hands into wandering; trips to the seaside and «we should come back for our honeymoon, don't you think?»'s - faded from his mind and left nothing but murder. He was beyond fear. He _needed_ to get the poison out, out, out, out, and if it took Barbara dying, _good fucking riddance_.

«If you touch a hair on her head», he growled, «I will-»

«Come on! Do you _have_ to be unpleasant?» Barbara cut in, and he realized with a chill that antagonizing her was the last thing he should have been doing. « _I_ can be unpleasant _too_!»

«No, don't, don't, I'm sorry, I'll-»

«WILLY!» his ex called, moving away from her phone. «Make the lady symmetrical.»

There was some mumbling, some moans, a high pitched wail.

«What do you mean, symmetrical?» a man's voice asked in the distance.

«Her _hands_ , you blind oaf. I mean her _hands_.»

«NO, NO, DON'T», Jim heard himself shouting.

Barbara did not answer. Instead, all he heard was muffled screams of panic that turned into a howl of pain, then sobbing. Harvey grabbed him by the back of his vest to keep him upright. He was vaguely aware of people running around him, and speaking in hushed tones. _Trace that call_.

«As I was saying, I wouldn't count on 'intact'. So. Are you ready to have a civil conversation, _now_? There was no need for hostility to begin with. I'm perfectly willing to keep this short and relatively pain free.»

«What. Do. You. Want?»

«Why, it's easy enough, _darling_. I get _you_ and I give her back. How is that for a trade? I think we're long overdue for a heart to heart.»

Harvey shook his head, waving an arm in a clear «no» gesture, and mouthed «no, no, no, don't fall for that».

Jim bit the inside of his cheeks, weighting the risks.

«Me against her. That's it. No games?»

«No games», his ex replied in a sickeningly sweet voice.

«Alright», the cop said.

Harvey raised his hands in frustration.

«Good», Barbara declared. «There's a car waiting for you in front of the precinct. AND SINCE I KNOW EVERYONE IS LISTENING - do I have your attention, everyone? - my men have grenades. If _anyone_ follows James, they _will_ throw them at random into the crowd. Just so we are clear. Also, don't try to have a patrol car follow ours. That's what rocket launchers are for.»

Jim tried to bolt, but Harvey grabbed him and pulled him back.

«Not on my life. She-», he snapped.

Then Jim punched him, sending him reeling back, and raced down the stairs, shoving a few other cops out of the way.

«She'll kill you BOTH», his partner called after him.

That was probably true, but Jim wouldn't have bet Leslie's life on it. He pressed the phone to his ear.

«Which car?» he asked as he got out of the building.

«The dark blue Golf.»

He looked around.

«There's three of those.»

«Have your pick, they are all mine.»

One to take him away, two to make sure no one followed. He walked to the closest car. A thug got out of it, hand on his weapon. He snatched Jim's phone, threw it to the ground, and pushed the cop on the back seat. The door slammed as the car started moving. The blond found himself sitting next to another armed man, who was pointing a gun at him.

«Gimme your piece», he ordered.

Jim complied. His gun flew through the window. He was frisked, and his spare gun found. He didn't have a knife on him. His father's - the one Falcone had given him - was in a locked box at Lee's. If he wanted to escape later on, he would have to disarm one of Barbara's men.

He heard an explosion as they drove away - _Grenade?_ \- but he did not manage to look back.

The ride seemed to last for days. They stopped on the docks of the Tricorner Yards, and Jim was escorted into a Queen Enterprises warehouse. Barbara was waiting at the opposite end of the building, in a short black dress, holding a purse in front of her. Ten men were standing around her, and Butch Gilzean was among them, right by her side. His presence was not that surprising. He had participated in the robbery at the Cohen's, and Barbara needed someone with an understanding of the criminal world to organize that kind of heist. Or an abduction, apparently.

Jim left himself be walked to his ex. She had them stop ten feet away from her.

«Did you take his weapons?» she asked.

«Yes maham», a henchman replied.

«All of them?», she insisted, pointing at his ankle. «Good. Now please hold him? No, both of you. He would fight his way out, otherwise.»

Two of the men grabbed him by the arms to immobilize him.

Barbara was very good at the evil bitch act, complete with the red gloves and white boa, in a perfect Cruella De Vil impersonation. Her smile was superior and confident, her eyebrows raised with just the right hint of mockery. Then her face softened into sweet innocence. It turned Jim's stomach.

«James, dear, it's so nice to see you.»

«Cut to the chase. You wanted me here? I'm here. Let Leslie go.»

She walked up to him, acting concerned.

«You're so pale, darling. Have you been taking care of yourself?» she asked, caressing his cheek.

He jerked away in revulsion, though he was kept into place by the two thugs and couldn't move his face away from her hand. The contact left his skin as clammy as if maggots had been crawling on it. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure.

«Where is she?»

Barbara shrugged and moved away.

«In a safe place.»

«I've said it before and I'll say it again», he sighed. «This is between you and _I_. You hate _me_. And now I'm here, so just leave her out of it. You want to kill _me_ , go ahead.»

She blinked, startled.

«I do not hate you.»

 _Well it sure looks like it, you fucking lu-_

Jim breathed in again.

«You don't», he repeated.

His ex stared at him with horrified worry.

«No! No, no, no! And, as a matter of fact, I do not want to kill you.»

The cop frowned, confused.

«You… Don't?» he replied, the words making no sense whatsoever. «You _don_ _'t?_ »

 _Then what the hell is this about?_

«Of _course_ not, James!» she exclaimed, getting close again. «I care for you. You're a _good_ guy.»

She ran her hand through his hair, putting it back into place, tenderly. She gazed lovingly at him.

«No, no. I wish you the _best_. I want you to have a _long_ , successful life. I want you to make it to lieutenant, and captain, and even commissioner. Entirely alone», she finished, the caring mask slipping and cracking into pure malice. «Just. Like. Me.»

Jim went blind with rage. That was so unfair he did not even know where to start.

«You don't get to do this!» he shouted, forgetting about the thugs standing around them. « _You_ left. YOU left, you _crazy bitch_. You don't get to whine about it. You don't get to raise _hell_ when I replace you.»

Gilzean chuckled. Barbara looked confused for a second. Then she took a step back.

«Oh, _Jim_. No. No, noooo», she moaned, raising her hands in annoyance. She started pacing, aggravated. «It's not about that at all. How can you so _completely_ miss the point?»

The cop stared at her and said nothing. If he had opened his mouth, she would have lost it on him. He _at least_ read that, even if he understood nothing else. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose to calm herself. Her face grew serious. She returned to him in slow, measured steps, and stopped in front of him.

«You took Jason from me», she accused.

Jim blanched, and gaped in disbelief.

«The _one_ person who ever loved me», she continued, in a quiet and composed tone. «And you killed him. I told you, I _told_ you to leave us alone, but did you listen? _No._ You had to _win._ And I know you wanted to do the right thing, I do. But it doesn't fix things, does it? You took him away from me. And I'm going to be here, every step of the way, every day of your long, successful life, returning the favor.»

His blood went cold. She meant it, and she would. It was not about Leslie at all. And sending Barbara back to Arkham would not solve the problem, because she could always bribe her way out, plead her way out, or just hire someone to do her dirty work. And while he did blame her, and blamed Lennon for what he had turned her into… Montoya had been right. He had dug his own grave. It could all have been avoided, if he had _thought_ of keeping Barbara safe from the Ogre.

«On that note!» Barbara exclaimed, grinning.

She turned away, getting her phone from her purse. She called someone. She turned the speaker on. They could hear muffled weeping.

«Willy, dispose of the lady, will you?» she said.

«Right now?» her interlocutor replied.

« _Yes_ , right now.»

«Okay, boss.»

There was a silence, still with the underlying sound of Leslie's sobbing, then a click. Then a gunshot. Then white noise.

«Done», the man announced.

«Thank you, Willy!» Barbara exclaimed, hanging up. She turned to Jim, grinning even more. «Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Which old witch? _The wicked witch!_ »

For a few seconds, Jim felt nothing at all. And when he _did_ start to feel something, it was incredulity.

«You're bluffing», he murmured. «You wouldn't have done it, you…»

«I'm sorry», she replied, rolling her eyes and digging through her purse. «Are you under the impression that I have scruples at the idea of killing people?»

He swallowed, his entire body numb. She pulled a gun out and shot one of her men in the head. The side of his skull exploded and he fell to the ground, convulsing.

«Damnit, boss!» Gilzean snapped. «What did I tell you about learning to use the damn things before trying things like that?»

«Well _sometimes_ you don't have a choice, do you?» she retorted.

The fat man rolled his eyes and shot the injured, trashing mobster in the forehead. The remaining henchmen started hesitating, some of them protesting. Barbara whirled to the most vocal, with a scathing glare.

«The _job description_ said you could get killed! You were warned! You knew it could happen!»

«Yeah, but we kind of thought it would be by the _cop_ », the criminal pointed out.

The coin dropped. Jim's disbelief faded. Leslie was dead.

He shook himself free from the thugs who were restraining him, tripping one to the ground and shoving the other away, and punched Barbara in the face. He followed up by kneeing her in the stomach, threw her to the ground, and dropped down to hit her again. She laughed between each blow, blood streaming from her nose and split lip. Jim raised his hand to strike again. Gilzean pressing a gun to his temple did not stop him. It took three men to drag him away. Once they got him up, Gilzean pushed him back, gun squarely pointed at his face.

Barbara curled up, giggling and coughing. It took her a few minutes to catch her breath, then she tried to sit, moaned, and started laughing hysterically.

«You okay, boss?» Gilzean asked.

She chuckled, wiping her bloody nose with the back of her hand, then wiping her hand on her white dress. She grinned, face swollen, lip split, teeth brown with blood.

«I'm fine», she replied between coughs.

Gilzean put his gun back into his holster and went to her up. She was still giggling, even hunched over, and he was carrying her full weight.

«Drop James somewhere out of town», she ordered. «Take his shoes, take his wallet. Don't hurt him. Let's go, Butch, we're done here.»

###


	24. Chapter 24

Leslie spread her coat over the backseat of her uncle's car and patted every pocket. Then she emptied her purse - wallet, card holder, notebook, keys, agenda, mess - item by item.

«I really don't have it», she said. «Those posters about pickpockets are on to something.»

Her uncle looked to her in the rearview mirror.

«Maybe you left it home?» he asked. «When did you last use it?»

«Home. But I remember putting the battery in my suitcase. Maybe I left it on the bed.»

«We'll check your suitcase once we get to the apartment… And if your phone isn't in it, we'll call your boyfriend, he'll check your place…»

«I'll be calling Jim anyway. I promised to check in.»

«Alright. We can see about getting you a replacement after that? There's a Best Buy two blocks away from my place, I hear prepaid phones are not _that_ expensive.»

«Thank you!»

«Now don't expect any advice from me on the topic. Never needed a cell and never will!»

They drove through New York - slowly, very slowly, in a traffic worse than Gotham's - to uncle Harry's and aunt Meredith's building. They parked, got Lee's suitcase out of the trunk, and a police car stopped next to them.

«Leslie and Harry Thompkins?», the driver asked, getting out of the car.

He was holding a photocopy of Leslie's driver license's photo.

«Yes?» the doctor replied, concerned.

A second cop got out of the passenger seat of the patrol car and got his radio out.

«We have them, captain. They are unharmed. They just arrived at the uncle's residence.»

«We've been looking for you, Miss Thompkins», the first officer explained. «You've been reported as an abduction victim.»

###

Renee glared at Falcone. Then she glared some more. The old man, who was sitting on the other side of the table in Giulia's elegant living room, just sipped his coffee and smiled.

«Am I to ever be tortured for information?» the cop asked. «Executed and thrown in the river? Or is it going to be weekly tea parties 'til the end of time?»

The crime lord lifted his eyebrows.

«I'm not a barbarian, Renee. I don't generally approve of spies, but I'm not going to fault you for doing your job, especially since Giulia assures me that she recognized you from day one and made sure you couldn't get any information. If you had not seen me, you would probably have been freed. As things are, you _did_ see me, and I can't risk releasing you yet. But you will be.»

«Allow me to doubt that.»

«You will be. You saved Giulia and her sons. She considers herself in your debt, she wants you unharmed and free. When it is convenient for everyone involved.»

The old saying was «the enemy of my enemy is my friend», and Carmine seemed to be a traditionalist. Still, an alliance between the Falcone and the Maroni was unheard off. Of course, the only thing Giulia had in common with Sal seemed to be their sons. Her approach of organized crime was cooler, _actually_ organized, and - while she had vocal outbursts - she could not be lured into brash retaliation and careless attacks. It explained why Cobblepot's head was still squarely on his shoulders. She was doing a good «job» - if leading a crime family could be called that - and it was not that much of a stretch that Carmine would approve of her methods.

«I still don't think you got out of my basement cell just for coffee and cannoli», Renee pointed out.

«No. No. I _do_ want information. But let's be civil. I'll just ask.»

«And I'll just shut up.»

Falcone clicked his tongue.

«I don't expect the deep secrets of the GCPD. I already know them. I want your input on Barbara Kean.»

Renee froze, staring at him in shock.

«Barbara Kean», he repeated. «It is my understanding that the two of you used to be involved.»

«What do _you_ want with Barbara Kean?»

«Ah. Of course. You wouldn't know, you haven't been reading the news. Had she already escaped from Arkham when you were captured?»

Escaped was not the term Montoya remembered. She knew about a raid on Arkham Asylum and an _abduction_. That was what the news had been saying. It had not occurred to her that Barbara could have orchestrated the whole thing, not without knowledge of the criminal world and contacts there. But Barb' had plenty of contacts _elsewhere_. A friend of a friend of a friend could have helped her out. She was not without resources. And she was driven. Renee had only managed to visit her once in the asylum, and Barbara's grinning, empty coldness had scared her. She knew from their past the blonde could be mean, and angry, and spiteful, but it had always been at her lowest. Happy Barbara was caring and warm, and would tease you and comfort you and drag you to parties, and dance for hours with a smile on her face. She was not one to smirk at you with dark pleasure, and to tell you «It's a shame I didn't get Thompkins, but I'll do better next time».

«What happened?» the cop asked.

Falcone had a folder brought to him, and opened it on case file photocopies and news clippings.

«She's making quite a name for herself. Armed robbery, so far», he explained, handing her a folded newspaper page. «The odd murder. It's a bit concerning, really. We're not altogether sure she's affiliated with Cobblepot, but her choice of 'sidekick' did raise that question. She has been spotted with Butch Gilzean, who is known for his previous allegiances to Penguin and Fish Mooney.»

Renee knew Gilzean. He was the dumb, cowardly asshole who had acted as Fish's right hand for years. He was the brawn to her brains, since he had none of the later, but he'd been good at organizing her men and bringing theatrics to the missions she gave him. He believed himself a great comedian. He was also-

«That makes no _sense_. Gilzean held her hostage, when people found out Cobblepot was alive. She would have been _terrified_ of him.»

Carmine picked patient files out of his folder and pretended to read them.

«Miss Kean's psychiatrists are not _quite_ sure of what her problem is - they _do_ use a lot of obscure terminology - but they seem to agree on her no longer being able to experience fear.»

Renee reached for the photocopies, but Falcone pushed them away.

«I would not recommend reading this. Not if you ever had any kind of fondness for miss Kean. Those notes are very… Detailed. Let's just say Barbara's ability to feel _anything_ was severely crippled, and leave it at that.»

The detective _wanted_ to read it all anyway, just in case there was the slightest chance of recovery, mentions of treatments that might work, _anything_.

«So what, you think Penguin somehow hired her to steal some paintings she happened to know about?»

«He might have. We'll find out. But there's a more pressing issue. An hour ago, miss Kean managed to trick Jim Gordon into delivering himself to her. She had him believe she held his girlfriend hostage. He has not yet been found, and a great many people are looking for them, trust me on that.»

« _What_?»

«It was a very well planned operation. The timing was perfect, the car's exit route defended by armed men. Gordon's weapons and phone were disposed of first thing… Anyway, the vehicle could not be followed. Now, detective Gordon recently rescued me from a very bad spot. I'm in his debt. Which is why I came to you as the only available person who knows Barbara Kean. Where would she go? Where would she hide? Do you have any clue?»

Renee looked down at the Gazette's article about the robbery at the Cohen's. There were two pictures of Barbara: a mugshot, and one of those tabloids candid shots from a charity gala.

She pushed the page towards Falcone.

«I don't know. I have no idea. This is not Barbara anymore.»

###

Jim found himself alone on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, in the rain, with no shoes. There was nothing he could do now, except find a phone, call the precinct, and explain what had happened, so he started walking. He didn't really feel much. He did not really notice when the rocks on the road cut into his feet to the point of bleeding. He didn't pay attention to the cold.

Weeks of repeated failure and frustration were coming crashing down, washing him out.

He wasn't one to ever stop and reflect on what had gone wrong. That was the trick. You never stopped. If you did, you never started moving again.

So he had to go back, report, and then do… _Something._ He did not know what yet, since every single step towards his goals had brought at best nothing, and at worst _grief_. Nothing was ever fixed, there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and the tunnel moved steadily down into the abyss. You didn't fight crime in Gotham, you fought ever-spreading rot that could not be cut nor burned down, and that would taint and twist everything it touched. It was a sickness of the mind you could catch if you were not prepared.

Harvey was right. Jim finally got it, why there could be no heroes in Gotham. It had _finally_ sunk in. You could endure the pain and be ready to die for your goals, be ready to be gunned down in an alley or gutted in a slaughterhouse, it did not matter at _all,_ because the currency you kept putting on the table was never _you_. You paid with someone else's pain and someone else's blood, and to reach your goals - up, up, up - you had to be willing to stand on a pile of corpses.

He looked down and noticed the blood on his hands, all of it Barbara's. Revulsion forced him to the ground, and he washed the stains away in a puddle, wiping the mud on his pants, rubbing his skin raw. Then he heaved, and puked, and got up - _soldier through it_ \- or he'd have broken down into sobs and never moved again.

One foot in front of the other. _Put one foot in front of the other. And soon you'll be walking 'cross the floor_ _…_

A car drove past him, then another, and then he realized he could have _hitchhiked._ He did, getting a truck to stop.

«You alright?» the driver asked when he got in. «What happened to you?»

«I was robbed», Jim replied.

It was much simpler, and easier to believe.

«They sure dropped you far enough. Going to the city?»

«Yeah. If you could drive me anywhere that has a phone, I'd be grateful. I just need to call someone to come pick me up…»

«Sure. There's a motel five miles away. Won't be a long ride.»

«Thanks. _Thanks_.»

A few minutes later, the man parked on the motel's parking, and handed him five dollars in change, a can of coke, and a pack of Oreos. That little mercy nearly had Jim weeping.

«Good luck», the stranger said. «I hope your friends can get here soon.»

The cop nodded.

«Thanks again. You have _no_ idea how grateful I am for this», he said, shaking the man's hand.

Goodbyes were exchanged and the car drove away, leaving Jim standing alone in front of the motel. He considered going in, but there was a phone booth outside, and using _that_ phone did not require facing people. He walked to it, put a coin in, and tried to remember the precinct's number. He did. Then the idea of talking to someone there seemed like too much, so he called Harvey instead.

«Bullock?» his friend snapped.

The blond found himself without a voice.

«Jim, Jim, is that you?» Harvey asked.

Jim breathed in.

«Leslie is d-»

«LESLIE IS FINE», his partner shouted into his phone. «She's fine, she's okay.»

Except that wasn't true.

«No, no», Jim corrected him, so, so tired. «She's dead. Barbara ordered her killed. I heard her being shot.»

«She's _fine_! She was never abducted, Kean got her _phone_. Just her phone!»

The blond blinked and found himself sitting on the pavement. He curled up. It didn't register.

«Sarah is on the phone with Lee _right now_ », Bullock added. «We had the NYPD looking for her everywhere, they found her at her uncle's. She's at the station, she's safe, nothing is going to happen to her. Are _you_ okay?»

 _No_.

«Jim?»

Harvey waited.

«Jim. Jim, I'm coming to pick you up - _shit_ \- where _are_ you? _Can someone find me what that fucking number is?_ » he shouted, moving away from his phone. «Jim? Are you hurt?»

«I'm okay», Gordon said.

Then he sobbed.

###


	25. Chapter 25

«My loneliness is killing meee! _And Iiiii_ _…_ »

«Boss», Butch tried to cut in as he pressed an ice-pack to Barbara's swollen cheek.

She was sitting in the sofa, in a dress that was more than a little torn, her knees swaying in rhythm. Her face was a mess, with a really bad black eye, a slightly less horrific black eye, and red bruises spreading all over her left cheek. Her nose was caked with blood, her lips swollen and split. Gordon had gone to town on her, but then again, it was exactly what she had been aiming for.

«I must confess, I still belieeeve! _I still believe_ …»

«Boss. Please.»

«When I'm not with you I lose my mind!»

« _Boss!_ »

She ignored him, her singing raising in volume and shrillness.

«Give me a _siiiiiiIIIIiiiiiiignnnn_.»

«BARBARA, FOR GOD'S SAKE!»

She jumped to her feet, raising a fist up in the air.

«Hit me baby one more time!»

«I swear if you don't _stop_ with that song, I will _smother you_. It's been two hours. STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!»

The blonde put her hands on her hips and looked down at him with a brilliant smile.

«No need to get angry because I'm having a little fun, mister Sourpuss. It's just a song.»

He groaned.

«Listen. Boss. I'm fine with the whole 'talking in lyrics quotes'. That's funny. But you _caaaan_ _'t_ sing. No offense. You pretty much sound like a gerbil thrown into a blender.»

«That's a fairly specific image.»

«And a fairly exact one, trust me on that.»

She frowned.

«Are you telling me ten years of singing lessons got me nowhere?»

«I figure they got you _somewhere_. Out of the house for several hours a week.»

Barbara's eyes went wide.

«Oh my god. Did you know my parents? That was _spot on_.»

«I've known _parents_. Now sit and keep the ice pack on your face.»

She sighed and dropped down into the sofa, taking the ice and pressing it to her eye. She pouted. Her bottom lip cracked where it was cut, and blood ran down her chin. Butch heaved in aggravation and cleaned the blood with a baby wipe. He did the same with her nose while he was at it, mumbling about how insufferable she was and all of the reasons he should have found himself a better job, having been purchased for one million dollar notwithstanding.

«I've got to say, you're _evil_. I mean that as a compliment, really.»

«Thank you, Butch! That's so sweet!»

«So, how many times are you going to pull the 'not-killing-Leslie-Thompkins' card? Not that it isn't hilarious.»

He had to admit, she had _flair_. It had been so easy, too. Abductions from public spaces were always tedious, but getting a pickpocket to snatch a phone from a pocket on a crowded platform of a train station… Child's play. Sure, Barb' had to spend around four hours giving «interviews» to find an actress with a voice sounding like Thompkins', and Willy had not totally understood he had to _pretend_ to kill said actress, but otherwise, the organization had been minimal. Two dozen guys, two crate of weapons stolen from one of Maroni's trucks, and three cars. Butch had lined that up in two phone calls. After that, everything had been in the timing - calling Gordon right before his girlfriend's train was supposed to arrive in New York - and in Kean's stellar acting skills.

Gordon had swallowed it hook, line and sinker.

«Until Jim leaves her to keep her safe», Kean announced.

«Oh.»

«And then I'll kill her mom.»

«Wh-»

«And _then_ I'll kill her.»

«I'm starting to believe there was an actual reason why the doctors in Arkham wanted to keep you.»

«And _theeeen_ , when Jim lives alone with her cat, and the cat is a cherished memento of his time with her, I'll kill the cat.»

Butch blinked.

«Come on. I'll give you a pass for the 'throwing grenades into a crowd of civilians' thing, and the killing of our own guys, but the cat? That's just cruel. What has the poor thing ever done to you?»

Barbara lifted her eyebrows.

«And it wouldn't even give a shit about Gordon!», Gilzean insisted. «It's a cat!»

«You know, sane people have vastly different priorities than yours.»

###

Harvey stretched on Leslie's convertible sofa and resolutely closed his eyes, trying not to listen to Jim's telephonic conversation with the woman. There wasn't much to hear, really. The bedroom door was closed. The boy was subdued and exhausted and talked in a soft voice, so his partner only heard faint humming. It sounded bad enough. They'd been on the phone for five hours now, and Harvey had kept himself busy, making himself a sandwich, watching TV, and finally going to bed, after it had become clear that Jim would not emerge from the bedroom.

Heroes came and went in Gotham, and when they went, it was either in a box, either battered and broken. Harvey had seen his share of them, brave little knights, full of pride, and dreams, and suicidal urges. The lucky ones had seen the errors of their way quickly, and got with the program. The others - the live one - had very little to look forward to. A date with their AA mentor, sometimes a needle. Visits to the cemetery, to pay their respects to a wife, a mother, and in one case a two years old girl.

Harvey had to hand it to the bitch. As far as making Jim experience the pain of loss without actually _killing_ his loved ones, you couldn't do more efficient. He had no doubt it was only a sick kind of rehearsal and that she'd go for the real thing if given an opportunity. Which could not happen, because luck was a fickle thing, and even Gordon didn't have endless supplies of it. Which meant Harvey had to have a little chat with an old pal and knee him in the family jewels until the location of Kean's hideout of choice was mentioned. Sure, Fish had been fond of Gilzean (and then some), and had gotten Harvey to promise to help the guy out of Zsasz's hands if he could, but that no longer applied. Gilzean had gotten himself out just fine on his own, and he had _chosen_ to work for the mother of all cunts.

Finding him and making him talk would not be too difficult. No Pennyworth needed either.

But that would be in the morning, if - and only if - Jim didn't need a babysitter. The blond could probably use a few days of not being left to his own devices. He had been weeping like a child when his partner had found him behind that motel in the middle of nowhere. Jim Gordon, weeping. That didn't sit right with you. That being said, any escorting or babysitting would be for the next morning. In the meantime, Harvey could as well sleep.

The window opened.

Selina Kyle found herself face to face with a gun. Again.

«Alright, get your sorry ass out of here», Harvey hissed. «Right now.»

«Just wanted some news», she whispered back. «I heard stuff went down today. With Barb'.»

«Yeah, I'm not up for a repeat of your little tirade on how Kean is the best thing since sliced bread», the cop retorted, crossing the room to grab her by the collar. «Out.»

She let herself be lifted, looking up and down at him, in his wife-beater and pajama pants. She couldn't possibly see in the dark, not to mention judge, but she was a teenager and she did that anyway. The judging part.

«So are you going to throw me out a third story window?» she asked when he pushed her head out.

«How the… There's no fire escape?»

«No?»

«How did you even climb up?»

«Easily.»

He sighed.

«Just go away before Jim notices you're here. He's not in the mood for visitors, I'd say.»

The lights turned on, blinding them both.

«It'll be fine, Harv'», his partner said from the bedroom door. «Let her in. Well. Don't push her out.»

He crossed the room and walked into the kitchen. They heard the fridge door open and close, and the clatter of a glass on a countertop.

«If you get bitchy, I _will_ whack the shit out of you», Bullock whispered to the brat. «We clear?»

«Yeah, yeah, I just wanted _news_ , I didn't come to kill his firstborn.»

«So out of curiosity, who are you concerned about, Jimbo, or Maleficent?»

She shoved him away.

«Jackass.»

He rolled his eyes and dragged her to the kitchen, since he wanted to check on Jim and could not trust her not to steal half of Lee's valuables. His partner had poured two glasses of milk and opened a can of beer.

«Now don't you have low expectations of me», Harvey muttered.

Jim chuckled. He looked like death warmed over, but a chuckle was _something._ Certainly better than devastated silence, anyway.

Kyle grabbed her glass and sniffed the milk, then sipped it.

«So what is it she did?» she asked.

«She killed someone I didn't know and did not kill someone I know», Gordon explained.

«Heeeh… Can I have that translated into 'understandable'?»

«She staged the execution of my significant other, over the phone, and then she shot one of her men to prove she was not above murder.»

«That's… Not as bad as what I expected. I expected a ton worse.»

Jim sighed and drank his milk. Harvey, who couldn't exactly resent being considered an alcoholic, snatched the beer. The brat opened the cupboards and helped herself to the peanut butter, finding herself a spoon to eat it, but no bread. The girl was not afraid of Maria Mercedes Mooney, nor of Carmine Falcone. A little diabetes was not going to send her running.

«Sho whatcha gonna 'o?» she mumbled with the spoon in her mouth.

«Go to work in six hours and a half? I thought Cats were crepuscular, not nocturnal, by the way.»

«Shure you're up for it? You look like you've 'een run o'er by a train.»

«Shure I'm up for it.»

«If you shay sho», Kyle replied, finally spitting the spoon out. «And 'bout Barb'?»

Jim looked down at his hands and bruised knuckles. He said nothing. His face took on a vacant expression.

«And don't start with the sad looks», Selina snapped, rolling her eyes. «She could have done way, way worse, and you kind of had it coming.»

That was nearly two minutes of civil conversation.

«Aaaand that's it, you're out», Harvey intervened, pulling her away.

«It's fine», Jim said. «She's right. And I want her opinion, really.»

«You do?» the cop and the burglar replied.

«Yes. You _do_ seem to have a well-defined one, so give it to me.»

«Already did, you stormed off sulking like a little kid.»

«Point.»

Harvey sat down, worried, and watched the exchange. At worst, he could probably knock the girl out in one slap. It would take less than that to get her to shut up.

«And I'll admit I had it coming», Jim continued. «It was my fault. I'm the reason Barbara is… Different now.»

Kyle stared at him.

«Crazy.»

«Mentally ill.»

«Whatever.»

«And I've failed you, and endangered Bruce… And I've tried my best, and I have messed up time and time again.»

«You haven't tried your best», she retorted, shrugging. «You have tried your hardest. That ain't the same at all.»

The blond mused on that, much more diligently than he had ever mused on his partner's and Essen's advice. He took a deep breath.

«Fair enough. So. What do I do, now? What would be my 'best'? Since you obviously know.»

«Well you might try to _think_ before you _do_ , that should solve ninety-five percent of your problems.»

That hit home. Jim flinched. Then he turned to Harvey.

«I don't hear you protesting anymore?»

«The hell would I? She has a point.»

It was not like he had not told the exact same thing to the idiot a few times before, probably as many times as Bruce Wayne had dollars. And _now,_ he seemed willing to listen. If _one_ good thing could come out of the day…

Jim let out a long sight.

«Fine. So, Selina. How should I go about things? How do you go about things?»

«Me?» she replied, stunned.

«You.»

« _Me?_ I don't save people or anything.»

«Except… That isn't totally true. You protected Bruce. I hear you were taking care of Ivy when she was sick.»

«Well I wasn't going to let those hitmen get him, and it didn't really matter if there was someone with me when I ran away. And Ivy…»

She shrugged.

«You still protected them», Gordon insisted. «You did a good job of it. I'm willing to bet you are _still_ watching over Ivy.»

«Not that she requires much watching», Selina muttered.

«You protected them.»

«I _didn_ _'t!_ Well, I _did_ , but it ain't the same thing!» the brat snapped, annoyed. «I don't play hero. I don't save the day! I do _small_ things that I'm sure I won't fuck up!»

Jim studied her face and didn't answer. He was analyzing that.

«It's not rocket science!» Kyle yelled after a few seconds of being stared at, jumping away from Jim's line of sight as if it had been poking her in the face.

«Basically, you're like a miniature Harvey», Gordon commented.

«HEY!» his partner shouted.

Kyle wrinkled her nose in disgust.

The older man rolled his eyes.

«She's a Gothamite, Jim. She's been here longer than you. She knows her shit.»

###


	26. Chapter 26

One foot in front of the other.

That was the way. The terror and the pain, you buried. The sickness in the pit of your stomach, the misery that could make you - a grown man - cry, you ignored. One foot in front of the other, moving in the right direction. Correcting your course. Trying again. So you wanted to curl up and crumble down. So what? What was the point? What good would it do? What would you fix?

Jim was back at his desk, because running away from his mistakes would mean running away from the job, and running away from the job would mean letting David Sirkis to his fate. The man was possibly alive somewhere, with a bomb around his neck, at the mercy of his abductors. It was also likely that he was not the only captive, and Jim wanted them all freed before any more corpses surfaced. They still weren't sure of what the whole thing was about, but they were trying to figure it out.

«Sex ring?» Harvey suggested. «They're all attractive, could be models.»

«It _could_ be that, but then why would Sirkis be allowed to get out and flirt with Bakerton? Why even bother with the explosives? There's no shortage of beautiful sex slaves in Gotham, and the traffickers never go to the trouble of abducting bankers and inventing a story to explain their disappearances. They just snatch them from the Narrows or ship them in from Eastern Europe.»

«Special requests for rich sickos, then? They get people that match a look, a style?»

«It still doesn't explain why they let a missing person, someone the police was actively looking for, out in public.I mean, Sirkis was probably the one who kidnapped Sabrina Bakerton. Or maybe he lured her out so the abductors could-»

The bullpen's doors opened, and there was some screaming, the kind you got when a perp was brought in. Except, this time, the man who had walked in with two patrolmen was not cuffed. He was leading the two officers in. His face was bloody, and black and blue.

«I tell you!» he was shouting. «Let's just call the captain, and we'll see his face when I tell him James Gordon tried to kill me. I want that guy in JAIL.»

There was a lull as every cop in the room turned to the newcomer. Then the heads turned to Jim. He stared at the man, utterly confused, then stood and walked down the stairs, as calmly as in the most usual of circumstances. There was not the slightest spark of recognition in his accuser's eyes, which gave him a fairly precise idea of what had happened. He joined the man, closely followed by Alvarez.

«Can we help you, sir?» Jim asked.

«Hell yeah you can. One of your guys just forced his way into my home and tried to fucking _stab_ me. You the captain?»

«No. Captain Essen is currently out, on a crime scene. I'm a detective here. Can you describe the guy who attacked you?»

«Yeah. Blonde. Tall. Well dressed. Had a badge, and knocked on my door, saying 'Sir, I'm detective Gordon, I worked on your sister's case', before he bludgeoned me with a fucking nightstick and dragged me back inside.»

Jim exchanged a look with Alvarez, who had also put two and two together. The vigilante seemed to have found himself a new victim. It most likely meant Jim had arrested the wrong person _more than once_ , and that the vigilante had attempted to stage another reveal.

 _Mario Pepper's death should have taught you something._

«Sir», Alvarez intervened. « _This_ is detective James Gordon. Whoever attacked you was impersonating him, most likely using a name you could recognize from your sister's case. If you'll please follow me to a different room so I can take your statement?»

The man took a step back.

«I wanna talk to your captain.»

«We'll call her in right now, Alvarez promised. His manners were perfect, and his seriousness very convincing. «But the sooner we know what happened, the faster we'll get our hands on your assailant.»

«I… I guess you're right.»

A few minutes later, the man - Peter Shepard - was sitting in an interrogation room with a cup of coffee. He was young, in his early twenties, and his record said he was on probation after a few years in Blackgate, where he had been sent for aggravated assault. Alvarez and Collins were talking to him. Harvey and Jim were observing from the next room, through the one-way mirror.

They both remembered Shepard's sister case. It was recent - as recent as Delores Stephenson's. In fact, I had been opened on the day Stephenson's body had been fished out of the river. They had been called on two more crime scenes that afternoon, and Dana Shepard's had been one of those. She had killed her estranged, meth-addicted husband, shooting him six times at point blank. She had been fairly proud of herself, too. He had been threatening her with rape and repeatedly showing up at her job to harass her, to the point that she had a restraining order against him.

Peter's sister would be discussed later, however. So far, Alvarez had been asking about the assault and its perpetrator. «Describe the man. How old was he? Any scars or identifying features? Was he injured in the struggle? Did he mention why he was targeting you?»

It was clear that Shepard was reconsidering his visit. He had probably been hoping for a quick buck, some money so Essen could get rid of him, but now he found himself questioned and was growing uneasy. He kept looking at the door and crumpling on his chair, getting defensive and sullen.

«No, he didn't. He just started beating me up.»

«You say an armed neighbor came to your rescue and ran the attacker out. Which neighbor? Do you have a name, or an address? An apartment's number?»

«Not really. I'd never seen that guy before. He just came in, pulled 'Gordon' away and put a gun in his face, then they both scampered.»

«And you gave that man's description to the officers who brought you here?»

«Yeah, I did.»

Alvarez nodded, standing up.

«I'll be checking if the patrols on your block have found your assailant or any signs of him, or of the man who rescued you. I'll be back soon. Detective Collins will ask you a few more questions, then we will see about placing you under protective custody until we are sure it is safe for you to return home.»

That got Shepard to throw a quizzical look at the door, then at Collins, but he did his best to hide his panic.

Alvarez got out and closed the door.

«What can you tell me on his sister's case?» he asked to Jim and Harvey.

«Abusive husband got shot by a wife he was separated from», Bullock replied. «He went to threaten her one time too many, she shot him, and didn't just confess, she was patting herself on the back for doing it. She said he'd been making her life hell.»

«You didn't look into other suspects?»

«She said she'd done it, her kids were six and four, and she had no boyfriend. We didn't know about the brother.»

«He doesn't like it when he's asked about why he was attacked», Jim pointed out.

«Think he could have killed his sister's husband?» Alvarez asked. It didn't sound like a question.

«I definitely do», the blond replied with a sigh. «Ex-convict on probation vs battered wife and mother of two… She'd get accused of voluntary manslaughter, and with her story, she'd get three years, with early release for good behavior. The brother would be lucky to be charged with anything less than a first degree murder, he'd get years in prison, if not life.»

«Exactly what I was thinking», Carlos said. «And I think I'll ask him just that.»

Harvey drummed his fingers on the wall, lost in thought.

«The thing is, it's not like the other case. There would not be proof lying around, no history of text messages, no emails. I doubt that Dana lady would have called her brother to come rescue her from her husband's surprise visit. The guy would have had to cross the whole damn town. And it was her gun.»

«So Peter was probably at his sister's when our vic' arrived.»

«Yeah. So how the fuck did the vigilante get _proof_? He wouldn't kill the guy without solid evidence to send to the press.»

«I still think it's a cop», Alvarez declared. «The information he got the first time around, and the way he went about it? It screams detective work. Now, what happened to Dana Shepard after her arrest?»

«Released on bail», Jim said. «Weeks later. She got an excellent lawyer through her boss.»

«Check if her phone records were ever pulled. Check if ' _you_ _'_ had them pulled. Get a warrant and check both the Shepard's houses for bugs. A voice recording of them discussing the murder would be proof enough, and I don't see what else the vigilante could have found. Bullock has a point.»

«Of course I do», Harvey replied. «Let's go.»

###

Once upon a time, Fish had taught Liza how to smile and how to wrinkle her brow, how to bat her lashes, how to fake sadness and innocence. Now she was doing it again, except with her own flesh and that of a dozen dead women. She had ample time to practice, and no shortage of mirrors. She was making good progress. She managed sweet, and soft, and angelic. Went she felt like punishing herself a little, she went for that desperate emptiness, that sullen, drugged look that she had so thoroughly scraped away from the girl.

Even without the blue make-up and the long dark hair, Fish managed a decent impersonation of the old Liza, the one who had been ready to beat up a woman half to death for a job she had not even known the description of.

Even without the pink lipstick and the blonde locks, even without the silk shawls, even without the pearls, Fish nailed 'Angel Liza', because Fish was skilled at giving herself weapons. Life gave you lemons? You made invisible ink, not lemonade, and you sold what was left of the lemons.

She also nailed 'destroyed and half-crazy with horror'. Dulmacher ate it up. Men always saw what they wanted to see.

Her recovery was going well. The horrendous pain was here to stay. She consoled herself by imagining how she would share it with Francis and his entire team. They liked scalpels and body parts? They would get scalpels and body parts. In the meantime, she healed. Her scars no longer bled, and the wounds no longer reopened when stretched. She could trash in her bed and try to free herself. She felt a stinging, but she no longer found herself bleeding and tearing up at every joint. It meant it was time to escape.

She just needed an opportunity. She was washed and fed regularly, but the nurses were careful not to let her move. They kept her cuffed if she was to me moved from the bed. Some day, at some point, they would forget a step and Fish would gut them. Mirrors were a wonderful thing to smash people's heads into: you got to see the look on their face the entire time.

In the end, the nurses didn't get an opportunity to mess up. Freedom came in the form of a seven year old child. Calvin came back to check on her.

The door opened softly, very softly, with scared caution. The boy was pressing his face to the small opening he was making so he could peek inside. Fish smiled.

«You can just come in, young man.»

He opened the door and slipped into the room, closing it behind him.

«You didn't get ill?» he asked, visibly worried.

«I didn't. I told you I wouldn't. You didn't have the flu nor a stomach bug, did you?»

«No.»

«Are you still having a case of complications? I've been worried.»

«The doctor says yes. I have to be hooked to a machine alllll day. I'm so bored. I just want to be, you know, not sick, so I can go back to Gotham. They sent Logan back. They said he was in a new family now.»

 _One family and then some, in as many parts_ , Fish thought. And if Dulmacher had taken both of the boy's kidneys, he would enjoy eating his own.

«Are they treating you well?»

«They gave me all of Captain Marvel's comics. All of them since, you know, the first one.»

«That sounds great.»

«Nah. Captain Marvel is boring and he talks weird, like 'holy moley'. And his enemies are worms. From Venus.»

«I'm sorry. Worms?»

«Yes. I'd like some Spiderman comics instead. Venom is much better.»

Fish was not altogether familiar with the Spiderman lore. She just nodded.

«You shouldn't be out of your room», she reminded him. «You _will_ get in trouble.»

«I know… I'll go.»

«Good. But before that!»

«Yes?»

«My nose itches. Can you untie my hand? It's driving me crazy!»

Calvin looked at her, nodded, and hopped to her. He fought with the leather straps around her wrist, but managed to open them. She made a point of rubbing every inch of her nose.

«Thank you so much! Ah, that's much better.»

«Okay! Do I tie your hand back?»

«No, that won't be necessary, the nurses will do it. Now run off… And don't tell them you've been here! You don't want to be in trouble, do you?»

###


	27. Chapter 27

Note: this fic is FINISHED ON AO3, all 53 chapters of it! I'm on there as "Metawohoo".

* * *

«No», Leslie said.

She crossed her arms, stood firm, and stared Jim down.

She was back from New York, in a state of rage she had not felt in… That she had never felt before. She was a nice person. The only time she had used the word «loathing», she had been talking about the group of «mean girls» who had made her life hell in high school (where being pretty and having a great smile didn't save you if you mentioned an interest in crime stories and forensic science). Loathing. She had not understood the concept before meeting Barbara Kean. Lee was not furious, she was _enraged_. The blonde had carved a piece of Jim's soul out, and he would never be getting it back. He was terrified, and he was hurt. And - of course - he desperately wanted to keep Leslie safe, and went about it just like you would expect him to.

He took a deep breath and set his jaw, moving back into the sofa and looking up at her.

«A break up is not something you can _disagree_ about», he declared. «Just as I was saying, _I_ don't think this is working out.»

She raised her eyebrows.

«Then I'm listening. What is wrong? What can I do to fix it?»

The question was a trap. She knew full well he wanted her gone so she wouldn't be Barbara's target. She also knew he would not admit it, but would not invent motives either.

He did not answer. She sat down next to him and grabbed his hand with her intact one, not to remind him of the wounds she had earned because she was close to him.

«I won't leave. I won't. I want to be by your side. I refuse to let fear chase me away.»

«I'm not afraid.»

«You are. I am. But we can't let her win. And I don't think for a second I would be safe if I left you. She will _still_ know you care, Jim», Leslie finished, caressing his palm.

He shivered.

«She would give up.»

«I don't think so. And I think deep down, neither do you.»

He pursed his lips and looked far into the distance.

«So», Lee continued, «I'm going to stay, and we are going to see how I can keep myself - and this place - safe.»

###

Giulia smiled as she spoke. Cassidy could not see her, but smiles could be heard over the phone, and it was important for Penguin's lieutenant to feel at ease while they were negotiating.

«I can easily dislodge Piangi and give you his casino», she said of another of Cobblepot's men, a businessman lower on the food chain but still at the head of a very interesting piece of property, especially when you were the competition. «What do you say to that?»

Carmine listened to her words and nodded, approving of both the tone and the offer. He kept pacing across her office.

«I don't need the place», Cassidy bluffed. «Plenty of money, opportunities for advancement.»

«Give him free passage across the Sprang river», Falcone said.

«And to that I can add warehouses on both sides of the Sprang River, and safety for your boats. I know how difficult it is for you to move goods out of Old Gotham.»

The old man gave her a look of approval. Cassidy scoffed.

«Safety for my boats won't cut it if my men have to cross half of Penguin's territory to get to Port Adams.»

«Half is a generous estimate. We are talking four blocks. And that's assuming Cobblepot will manage to retain control over that area. The Port itself is _still_ my family's territory.»

«And what's to tell me you'll keep the port? It's not been the quietest part of town lately. How many raids were led on the place to try and get rid of your men? How many did you lose?»

«Not quite as many as our friend Oswald pretends», Maroni retorted, grinning. «He has been known to exaggerate his accomplishment. Or flat out invent them.»

«Strange. He says the same about you.»

«I'm not the known triple-crosser, Cassidy.»

Falcone raised a finger.

«Tell him Abernati is interested in the casino», he whispered.

«Let's return to the topic of the Crown Palace», Giulia said. «You're aware the place is lucrative. Now, you're first in line on my list of candidates to run the business, with your prior experience with gambling establishments. But I've had other offers, both from my family and from Salvatore's friends in Chicago.»

«Who?» her interlocutor snapped.

«Well, I suppose it's not really a secret. I had an interesting meal with Abernati and Cahoorts just yesterday at the restaurant. A fairly public location. I figured you would know already.»

Cassidy didn't answer, so she pressed her advantage. She didn't have a choice. They needed him, and his men. The war was over and both sides were holding their territory, but their forces were roughly equal. You couldn't bring more player ins: you could only cut the city in so many pieces, and there was nothing left to distribute. If someone was to get the upper hand, allegiances had to shift.

«Let's be honest, Abernati is a competent man, but he's a loan shark and a fence. He doesn't have twenty years of experience running gambling hells.»

«He doesn't. And he's not competent either, where did you fish that idea?»

«From our ledgers.»

Cassidy took a few moments to find an answer.

«Listen. It's all a very nice offer. I look forward to seeing that moron completely ruin it. But I was Falcone's man. Do I enjoy working for the little cunt who ran him off? No. But he's just a conniving little asswhipe, he's universally hated, so I'm just gonna sit and wait for someone to lose it and kill him. Might take a while, but it will happen. Joining your family, though? No way. Falcone and Maroni don't mix.»

Giulia took a deep breath. Carmine held his hand out so she would give him the phone. She hesitated. Having him as a silent partner was one thing. But if word of their collaboration got out, holding the reins of her organization would be difficult. Then again, what choice did she have? She handed him the phone. He pressed it to his ear and smiled.

«Oh, Bart, about that», the old man told Cassidy. «You know what they say. 'Me and my brother against my cousin, but me and my cousin against a stranger'.»

###

Jim pinned a row of photographs to the board he had dragged to Sarah's office, then turned to his captain, who had wanted to be briefed on the Stephenson case.

«Delores Stephenson, Sabrina Bakerton, and David Sirkis. Now, until we found out about Sirkis, we thought the women had been snatched and that their abductor had taken care of leaving letters, sending postcards, and so on. Then we learned that Sirkis had been spotted talking to Sabrina, and we returned to her family and friends. Now, after talking to them… It's very, very likely that Delores was snatched up to two weeks before her disappearance. She had been wearing a scarf for days, because of a 'cold' that was not getting better.»

«So, our abductor would have caught her a first time, placed the explosive necklace, and sent her out to stage a fake trip and conceal her own disappearance?» the captain asked.

«That's the idea», Harvey replied. «She got orders, and what was she gonna do with that bomb on her?»

Jim pinned a blank sheet to the board and wrote 'blond man, 40s'.

«We asked around to see if Sirkis was spotted on her campus or around her building, but no one recognized him. That being said, Delores was seen with another man, two weeks before her disappearance. Blond, tall, good looking, looking very serious. He was looking for an apartment for his daughter, and she introduced him as a family friend. He apparently spent an afternoon there, and discussed with Stephenson's landlord, about available flats in her building. He _also_ wore a scarf.»

Sara frowned.

«He would be a fourth captive?»

«It's not impossible. That, or the abductor himself, but seeing how David Sirkis approached Bakerton, it's not unlikely the prisoners are the ones doing the kidnapping.»

«So we'd have two dead, one missing, maybe a second, if not more?» Sarah summed up. «What the hell does our perp _want_ with those people?»

«I think it's porn», Bullock chimed in.

Their captain lifted her eyebrows.

«Porn?»

«Yeah. They are all good looking. Could have been some normal sex slavery thing, but they wouldn't let them out, not like that. Not in Burnside with all the preppy kids, anyway. So it could be luxury slaves, maybe. The autopsies showed they were healthy before they died. They didn't starve, Stephenson had no blatant injuries that weren't from the blast…»

«More importantly, they are likely getting paired up», Jim explained. «Sirkis didn't flirt with a rich stranger he could have gotten money from, he went for some broke barista. So Harvey thinks it's about finding a match for the abductees.»

Jim's partner nodded.

«I'm not saying our freak - or freaks - have no gender preference, but there's something about this MO that just doesn't add up. The whole sending Sirkis to _flirt_ with Bakerton? There's no reason for that. The moment she got that necklace, she had to comply with everything.»

«Luring her away from the coffee shop?» Sarah commented.

«She got out on her break to smoke in an alley easily accessible by car, with no security cameras», Jim pointed out. «But it was still right behind the coffee shop's kitchen. Trash is taken out regularly, employees go there for cigarettes, strangers couldn't have been around long without being spotted… And she didn't know Sirkis, convincing her to follow him would have been difficult. Abducting her by force made more sense. Grab her, pull her into a vehicle, flee…»

«I still don't see the link to pornography. Are we even sure it's a sexual predator?»

Jim nodded, grim.

«The ME examined what was left of Bakerton. He says there's evidence of intercourse.»

«Which is why I say porn», Harvey explained. «'Cause I get the impression our perp either likes to watch, either he's providing girlfriend/boyfriend videos on request to some other perp. Kind of like when we got that snuff movie guy back in 97.»

«Christ, this _city_ », Sarah moaned at the recollection.

«So we have been-»

«Hey, Jim!» a woman yelled from the bullpen, making the blond jump.

He turned to the office's window, chill going down his spine. Barbara's voice. Zsasz's words and tone. And Barbara called again, in a singsong voice.

«Jiiii _iii_ mmm!»

Essen went pale and stood. Harvey looked outside in disbelief. Jim just walked out of the room and into the bullpen, then went to stand next to the railing. No one had climbed onto the farthest desk, but Barbara was standing in front of it, in a short cream-white dress. Gilzean was by her side. And Zsasz was there too, of course. Someone had to have told Barbara what the hitman's exact words had been, when Falcone had sent him to the GPCD. The maniac was holding a cuffed blond man to the floor, with a foot pressed on his back. Thugs were also spread across the room, and Zsasz's last «sidekick» was waiting at the exit.

His ex waved and smiled.

«Hi Jim!»

Zsasz _had_ briefed her.

The cop thought hard about a reply he could give, and came up empty.

«Barbara», he croaked.

«Relax», she started - and he waited for the _«I'm supposed to take you in alive»_. It didn't come. - «I'm here to make amends.»

«Amends. It doesn't look like you are trying to make amends», he commented, pointing at her men.

«Well, I figured you might be a bit miffed about that joke with Leslie, and that you might try to arrest me.»

«Miffed.»

«Miffed.»

« _Miffed_ », Jim repeated again, torn between rage and disbelief.

«You _are_ , aren't you? I knew it!» - She shook her head, eyes closed, and took a deep breath. - «Now, you know, I'm being the better person here! It's not my fault you can't take a joke. If I were you, I would work on improving my sense of humor. I can't see you making many friends with that sour temper. _Anyway_. I'm being the better person. Making amends.»

Jim looked around. He was not about to say there were fifty cops in the room. He knew they would walk out on him. But Harvey and Sarah joined him, at least. That was something. Essen nodded at Alvarez, who stood and put a hand on his weapon. So did Collins. So did some detective Jim had never heard about.

 _That felt good_.

«Oh my!» Barbara exclaimed. «You have _buddies_. You never had buddies before! Did Harvey befriend them for you?»

«Will you shut up, you bitch?» Bullock helpfully replied.

His voice was not as much aggressive as carefully bored. The blonde ignored him.

«Ah well. I knew some of you might just be crazy enough to try to attack me. I'm not as scary as, say, Victor. Yet», she said, opening her purse.

Jim put his own hand on his own weapon, knowing about the gun she kept in there. But all she took out of the bag was a set of Polaroids.

«So I took my precautions», she explained. «I told myself… I can't threaten to kill Jim. They wouldn't care. But everyone likes _Sarah_.»

The captain, who was standing at Gordon's side, ever so slightly froze. Barbara's smile turned into a grin.

«And so this my basement», she said, handing a picture to the closest cop. She gave him another. «And this cute little girl is _Anna_. Isn't she _adorable_?»

Sarah wobbled. Harvey swore under his breath. Several cops jumped forward, there were gaps of indignation. The photo started moving from hand to hand towards the staircase.

«And this is Sofia», Barbara added. «And this is Granny Rosa.»

Anna's picture made his way up the stairs and to Sarah's hands. She let out a strangled moan, barely audible. Jim peeked to his right and recognized her five years old daughter on the picture. The girl was playing with dolls, but you could see an armed man in the background.

Barbara would leave free as a bird. Even with Zsasz, even if everyone but Essen, Bullock, Alvarez and Collins had walked out, the cops could have fought. They could have tried. But not with children held hostage.

Sarah collected herself.

«What are the terms of their release?» she asked, in a voice that was barely shaking.

Barbara raised both hands, panicking.

«Oh, they won't be hurt, I'll have them dropped at some bus stop after I walk out of here. I wouldn't hurt a little girl, you know. They're all sugar and spice and everything nice. But still. I wouldn't arrest me, if I were you.»

«I want to talk to them.»

«Okay! Butch, call the girls?»

Gilzean complied. He got his phone out and called someone, walking to the staircase. All of the cops on his way let him through.

«Get the girl on the phone», he mumbled as he climbed the stairs. «Which one? Depends, Jack, do you want to get your hand close next to the one who chewed a hole in Kevin's wrist? Thank you, Jack.»

Rolling his eyes, he handed the phone to Sarah, who calmly pressed it to her hear.

«Anna, sweetie?»

Jim could hear the buzzing of a little girl's voice. He watched Sarah's worried face for an instant, then turned to Barbara. She pointed to the man Zsasz was crushing against the floor.

«As I was saying, I'm making amends, I brought you a gift.»

«A gift.»

She grinned. It was horrendous. Her face looked like it was made of plastic, so covered in foundation and concealer you couldn't see an inch of skin. Then again, her bruises were unlikely to have healed. Jim's knuckles were still on the yellowish side.

Zsasz bent down and pulled their prisoner to his knees. Several cops gasped.

«So, I was stalking you», Barbara explained. «And aren't you the most popular girl in school, Jim, but I noticed _I was not the only stalker_. There was this man too! So I had _him_ stalked. Just in case.»

Some of the cops were talking in hushed tones. Jim caught a «Kyle» and «patrolman». Sarah, who was still talking to her children, took one look at the man and froze. Harvey was whispering a continuous stream of curses.

Everyone knew that man.

Jim tried to use the stairs, but Gilzean blocked his way, clicking his tongue.

«Listen to the lady», the thug advised.

The detective set his chin but obeyed. Barbara chuckled.

«It's strange, you know? I thought he was internal affairs, when we found out he was a cop. Officer Kyle Paxton.» - The name was familiar, but Jim could not place it. «Lowly patrolman. Likes decaf coffee. Loves jelly beans, but won't eat the green ones. You know, plain _booooring_. Then, lo and behold, he goes to knock on someone's door and attempts to kill the guy who opens the door. That's one hell of a plot twist.»

 _Peter Shepard_ , Gordon thought. _The vigilante_. But that realization happened at the back of his mind. Mostly, he was trying to recall where he had heard about an officer Paxton. He had heard the name before. It was important.

Harvey groaned and ran a hand on his face.

«Shit», he murmured.

«Long story short», Barbara continued, «my man had moral objections to the whole murder thing, so he stopped officer Paxton from stabbing his victim, then captured him and brought him to us. And we had a chat. And it turns out he's some sort of vigilante. Killing people you've failed to arrest.»

 _Paxton, Paxton, Paxton._ Everyone in the room seemed to have figured out who the cuffed policeman was, as well as his reasons.

«I thought that didn't sound very legal», Barbara explained with a shit-eating grin, as she made her way across the room, «so I figured I'd let you arrest him and handle the issue.»

She walked up the stairs, brushing Gilzean's shoulder when he let her pass, then she smiled to Jim. From up close, you could see the violet shades under the makeup. Her face was still swollen. She caressed his chin. He recoiled.

«He told us why he did it», she said. «And it's so very sad.»

Sad. _Sad._ And it hit Jim. Officer Paxton, not Kyle, but Debra. Officer Debra Paxton who had died in the GCPD's parking lot, at the hands of Victor Zsasz, after Montoya and Allen had saved Jim. Debra Paxton, who had been survived by her parents, her son, and a younger brother, also on the force. Jim had not gone to her funeral. He had been warned he was not welcome. But you put a foot in front of the other and you kept moving, didn't you? You didn't let guilt drag you down.

«Kyyyyllle!» Barbara called. «Why don't you tell James why you did all of this?»

Paxton spat on the floor, but Zsasz grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. The young cop still tried to shake free and to kick him, but the hitman bashed his head against a desk. He forced him to look towards the balcony.

«Tell them, Kyle», Zsasz commanded. «Be _nice_. It will go muuuch better for you.»

Paxton panted for a moment, then clenched his teeth, and looked straight into Jim's eyes.

«Because you're a SHITTY COP!» he screamed. «You have NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU ARE DOING. And you think you're so _great_ when you get in the news for arresting some big name freak, AND EVERY TIME YOU SCREWED UP GETS PUSHED UNDER THE CARPET.»

He stopped, panting again, wiping the drool at the corners of his lips over his shoulder. Jim stared at him. Some of the other cops did the same. Most of them, however, were looking up a Jim himself, and he could feel their eyes. Paxton pointed at Zsasz with his chin.

«He… He killed my sister», the young man said. But _you_ , Gordon? You caused it to happen. _He_ was here for _you_. AND YOU RAN. YOU FUCKING RAN. Did you even _try_ to save Debra? Did you even _THINK_ of it, you asshole? Or was she an afterthought like everyone _else_ you screwed over?»

Barbara snickered.

«I thought of it», the detective replied. He had. «There was nothing I could have done. Not me, not Montoya, not Allen. There was _no_ crossing that parking lot.»

There was a whisper next to him - Barbara's «Liar, liar, pants on fire» - and some mumbling from the cops in the pen. Sarah was still talking with her daughter, in hushed tones, though she was not missing a second of what was going on. Kyle snorted.

«Yeah? You sure of that? Because last time I checked, it didn't rest heavy on your conscience, did it? I heard you got _real_ friendly with Falcone. THE MAN WHO SENT _HIM_ », he shouted, thrashing to turn to Zsasz.

 _The next time you figure someone is the_ _«best bad man we have», you might want to remember things like this, Jim._

«Alright, that's enough drama!» Barbara cut in. «Shut him up.»

She was quickly obeyed. Paxton was gagged and pushed to the floor again. She turned to Jim and gave him a curious look.

«One question haunts and hurts, too much, too much to mention.»*

The detective turned to her, feeling empty, and waited.

«Were you only seeking good, or just seeking attention?» she asked. He _knew_ that song. He had seen the show with her. «Is that all good deeds are when looked at with an ice-cold eye?»*

Strangely enough, he remembered the lyrics, even though he hated musicals.

 _Sure, I meant well. Well, look what well-meant did._

«I don't know», he replied.

She raised her eyebrows.

«Okay then. So, are you going to arrest him, or do you plan to stand here all day?»

He clenched his fists and thought of Sarah's daughters.

«I will.»

She grinned and ran down the stairs, joining Zsasz, and tapping her foot impatiently. Jim started following her, slowly, and nearly froze when Gilzean whispered something to Sarah.

«I took the firing pins off. Neat trick. None of the guns around the girls can shoot, just so you know», he said, taking his phone back from the captain.

Gordon could not see her reaction. He just kept walking, and heard Gilzean's footsteps behind him. He crossed the bullpen and crouched next to Paxton. Then he arrested him, reciting his Miranda rights. He tried to let Alvarez lock him up, but Barbara would have none of it. She clicked her tongue and pushed the other detective away, staring intently at Jim. So he locked Paxton up too, taking the gag away.

«Another freak for the front page», the younger man whispered. «Congratulations.»

«I'm not after the glory», the detective replied, as softly as he could.

«What you're after doesn't matter», Paxton retorted. «What matters is what you do, and what you do is _shit_. Just look at _her_ », he finished, glaring at Barbara.

Jim walked away, and « _her_ _»_ joined him.

«I hope you're no longer miffed», she told him.

He looked at her and tried to see if there was something left, underneath the monster.

«I helped you out, and it was a _big_ favor», she said. «I hope you'll remember this.»

The detective thought of Debra and Kyle Paxton, of the cases he had botched, of Selina and Bruce being chased by assassins. And of everything in the Ogre's case file. And Barbara's.

«I will», he said.

She grinned.

«I knew it. _I knew it._ Alright, boys! Let's go!»

Her men started moving towards the exit. Gilzean joined her, putting a hand on her back, and escorted her to the door. Zsasz and his partner closed the march.

###


	28. Chapter 28

Note: This story is complete on Archive of our own. Same author name.

* * *

There was only one easily available gun in the clinic - the one under Dullmacher's desk, in his office - so it had been Fish's first target after her escape.

She had freed her arm, legs and feet, then unscrewed the strap Calvin had opened from the bed, dropping the screw on the floor and letting it roll away. As for the strap itself, she had thrown it in a corner of the room. Then she had made her way down the corridor, wrapping her hospital gown around her, and tried to find a weapon. She had easily found found scissors, along with several packs of bandages, on a medical cart. Then she had gotten her hands on a nurse who was getting out of a patient's room.

«Don't scream», she had warned the woman as she grabbed her from behind, pushing one of the blades of the scissors into her mouth. «Or I swear you'll get such a special smile Francis' skills won't be enough to make you pretty again.»

Five minutes later, the woman had been dead and her body neatly packed in an empty supplies box in the closest exam room. Her slit throat was bandaged so blood would not pool around the box, and Fish had cleaned the stains on the floor. Then she had put on her pristine nurse uniform and made her way to the Dollmaker's office, snatched his gun, and vanished.

She knew all about vanishing. People tended to forget about it as, for the last twenty years of her life had been spent making herself as striking as possible, but she had made herself disappear for years of her life. When her mother had pushed her through the window, as a child of eight, with the sole instruction of «never letting her father get his hands on her», she had ran. And she had hidden, nesting under trash in the sewers, sleeping on the roofs, slipping into attics to curl into a ball under discarded furniture. She had been a terrified little girl, cowering in fear at the idea of being discovered and brought back to a father who saw her as stock, just like he did her mama. Yes, Maria had known how to hide. If you could crawl there, if you could fit, if you could be very silent, then you would live.

Now, of course, as a child, she had been hiding from cops, tweakers and pimps. Dullmacher's private security force was better trained, more dangerous, and actively looking for her. Going to the basement was out of the question: the guards would go straight to the prison, expecting her to seek help from the other captives. It was too cold and snowy outside to hope to survive a night, not to mention the island was small and offered little in the way of shelter. So Fish found herself in the attic, walking in larger footsteps on the dusty floor not to leave a trail. She stashed the food and water she had collected - both of those being readily available around the patients - at the bottom of a trunk of old bedsheets. She carefully rearranged the furniture and boxes around a tiny space where she could only fit curled up in a tiny ball. She hid there with two bottles of water and two cups of strawberry yogurt, closed the opening with a last box, and waited.

The guards came and went.

###

Oswald had expected to spend an excellent day. That had been the plan. He was to enjoy an afternoon lounging in his living room, waiting for the news of the very discreet bank heist planned for the afternoon, the one where three separate bank tellers and three security guards, not to mention the bank's manager, had been blackmailed into facilitating the way to the vaults. So many people thought they could have both children _and_ important jobs.

Then he had heard the news, and the plan had changed to «murdering Victor Zsasz», or at least «sharply reminding him of his allegiances».

Then his guards had dragged a very disgruntled, very cantankerous Jim Gordon to his office.

«James. What, pray tell, is the meaning of this?» the crime lord said, pointing at his slightly disheveled guards.

They hadn't fought Gordon. Not really. But words had been exchanged, and there had been some pushing and shoving.

The detective set his jaw and straightened his spine.

«Where is she?»

«Considering the events of the day, I'll assume your mean 'Barbara Kean'. I have no idea. As you very well know, I've been looking for her since she fled the mansion. Imagine my surprise when it turns out the very man I had set on her trail is under her employ. I tend to forget Victor is muscle for hire.»

«How convenient that you know nothing about the whole thing», Gordon muttered.

Oswald stared at him with cold rage.

«Do you think me callous enough to work with someone who would abduct your captain's young girls?»

The blond hesitated, doubt talking hold.

«I _just_ crossed paths with Miriam Loeb», he commented. «It does not exactly bolster your point.»

Cobblepot sighed.

«She's a guest. A well cared for guest, if I might add. She's definitely happier here than locked up in an attic, or in Arkham. She greatly enjoys my mother's company, she gets to take walks in the park, and she has everyone to talk to all day long, as opposed to 'when someone remembers to bring her food'. What, exactly, is your problem with that?»

«You… Might want not to leave her alone with your mother. I'm not sure it's safe.»

Oswald rolled his eyes.

«They both have bodyguards, Jim.»

«And I'm not totally sold on the idea that you've taken her in out of the goodness of your heart. How compliant is Loeb, exactly?»

«James. You're comparing apples and oranges. Loeb has nothing in common with Essen, and Miriam is in her thirties. She's not a five years old girl. There's a _modicum_ of ethics to be respected in this business, Jim. Take Giulia Maroni. A few weeks ago, Franco Bertinelli - one of Salvatore's lieutenants - attempted to use her sons as hostages. She punished him. She killed her adult sons. But she let his wife and little girl leave. Hurting them would have been both out of line and unnecessary.»

The cop studied his face.

«You actually had no idea Zsasz would be involved.»

« _Of course I did not_. Kean's vendetta does not benefit me in the slightest! I can't _stand_ the woman. The _one_ time I attempted to help her out by saving her from Arnold Flass, she repaid me by slitting someone's throat in my _home_! I do not work with her, I have no plan to, and I can't wait for the day she returns to Arkham, where she so clearly _belongs_.»

The logic of it seemed to make his way through Gordon's addled mind.

«I trust captain Essen's girls are fine?» Oswald said. «I hear they were found unharmed?»

«Unharmed and covered in Claire's jewellery», Jim replied, still thinking.

He was no longer aggressive, though not calm by any stretch of the mind.

«I will get in touch with Victor», the crime lord announced. «And I'll attempt to get him to reveal where Miss Kean is hiding. I might have the upper hand here. I'm his main employer, and he didn't exactly endear himself to the Maroni.»

«If you get news, _any_ news, call me», Gordon asked. «She needs to be stopped.»

«I couldn't agree more», Oswald replied, though he didn't promise to call the cop. «I'll see what can be done. Now, if you'll excuse me, but I'm afraid I can entertain you much longer. I'm on a tight schedule.»

One of the guards put his hand on Gordon's shoulder to get the message through. The cop jumped, ready to strike, but just made his way to the door.

«I'll be in touch», he said.

«I'm sure you will. _Glad to be of help_ », Oswald replied, because he had not heard the words «please» nor «thanks».

James nodded and let himself be escorted out.

Cobblepot closed the door, walked to the window, and watched as the detective car drove away. Then he called Zsasz.

«Victor. My friend. I hear you've been rambunctious. I can't say I approve.»

«It was a job», the maniac replied. «Don't take it personally.»

«I don't. That being said, since you seem to be in dire need of funds, to the point you can't afford to turn down the most ridiculous contracts… I'll go ahead and offer you some work. I believe it won't prove as difficult as the execution of Giulia Maroni.»

There was a pause.

«I'm listening», the hitman replied.

«Bring me Kean. Bring me Gilzean. I want them at the mansion by the end of the day. Alive, for dear old Butch, and alive and _well_ for Miss Kean. Do not delay. Do not disappoint me.»

###

You didn't know what terror was until Zsasz had dragged you to his basement. You didn't. When you did, you didn't even care that you had pissed yourself even before his car was done parking in front of his hideout. You didn't care that you were a sobbing, whimpering mess. You just wanted to die.

Butch couldn't take another _second_ strapped to that operating table.

He should not have been taken by surprise. Barbara's little performance at the GCPD had been bound to piss Cobblepot off. But she had seemed so set on it, after talking to Kyle Paxton, that she had not listened to his protests at all. She had called Zsasz and organized a team - she had learned a lot by observing Butch, even though she never seemed to pay attention to what he tried to get through her thick skull - and located Essen's girl all on her own. Well. She had needed some help to select suitable «babysitters», and to order her team around, and more generally to handle the logistics of the whole thing. She had been very satisfied, too. «Why, Mister Gilzean, I believe we make a good team!», she had told him. He hadn't been overjoyed that she had hired Zsasz, but the psychotic bastard had gone his own way when they had left the GCPD, which had been good.

After that, they had spent a few hours shopping - jewelry, glitter, strawberry flavored chapstick - and gifted all of that crap to the girls and their grandma before dropping them at random in the Diamond District. Then Butch had driven Barbara back to the loft, and fallen asleep in the sofa while the woman watched American Idol.

He had woken to a gun again is temple. So had Kean, right after him, but she hadn't let that faze her. It was surprising, really, how many knives she could hide under those skimpy dresses. Zsasz's girl needed stitches, and possibly a new ear. But a few blades were useless against ten men and as many gun, so both Gilzean and his boss had found themselves bound and gagged in Zsasz's van, to be dragged at Penguin's feet. Five minutes into the trip, Butch had lost it, totally, because he knew where he was going to end up. When Victor pushed him into Cobblepot's office, Butch's was shaking so bad his cuffs were rattling. Then, his gag was removed, and all he could hear was the chattering of his teeth.

«Gilzean. Miss Kean. A pleasure to see you again», Oswald had said. «You will have to forgive the circumstances of your visit, but I felt a little chat was long overdue.»

Kean had frowned.

«Chat. You could have _called_ , Ozzie.»

Butch had whimpered at that. She did not care about being tortured - she did not care about anything - but he had been about to pass out from fright.

Penguin had ignored the nickname, which meant he considered the punishment he had in store for the blonde covered the insult.

«Yes. Chat. See, _Barbara_ , you haven't been operating in this city for long so - of course - you are not well acquainted with the rules around here. I figured you needed to be informed of them.»

She had blinked and apologized profusely.

«Have I caused problems for you? I'm so very sorry. I didn't think my little tricks could have repercussions. I mean, I haven't done much, have I? A little joke. A little favor for James.»

Oswald had clicked his tongue.

«Let's go straight to the point. Gotham belongs to _me_. You will not rob people, you will not abduct cops, and you will most certainly not attack the GCPD without my express approval.»

«Alright, alright. I understand. I will ask for permission! I swear! Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye! I'm so, so, so sorry!»

Her tone had sounded genuine enough.

«I don't believe your word will be enough, Barbara. I'm not even sure you have enough brains left to remember that promise by the time you walk out the door. Which is why I feel the blame lies elsewhere. I think dear old Butch should have informed you of the rules. He hasn't. As I don't believe he would willfully cross me, I'll assume he _forgot_ about the state of things… Which means he will have to be _reminded_ of the ways of the world.»

Gilzean's memories were hazy after that. He had started screaming. He had tried to grab one of Penguin's mens guns so he could shoot himself.

«- mean?» Barbara had said.

«I _MEAN_ _»,_ Cobblepot had screamed to cover the howling, «that I'm _granting you a refund_. Here's what will be happening…»

Butch remembered thrashing and weeping and being hit on the back of the head, while Oswald talked. Then Barbara had started wailing.

«Nononononononooooooooo! Butch! Please, _please_ , I'll do _anything_!»

It made no sense, because Barbara couldn't feel fear. She couldn't fear anything. That was part of her charm. But she had been crying all the same - faking it like a pro - and begging, and bargaining.

«What do you want me to do? Please, please, don't take him away. What do you _want_ , Oswald?»

But Gilzean had still been dragged out of the room and to Zsasz's van.

And now he was back in his basement and he couldn't take it. He couldn't. He couldn't.

###


	29. Chapter 29

Note: This story is complete on Archive of our own. Same author name.

* * *

Jim parked in front of Leslie's, leaned back into his seat, and took a deep breath. He had not managed to track Barbara down, though he assumed Cobblepot would be much more successful. He also feared that, in the unlikely event the two of them were not accomplices, Penguin would kill Barbara if he got his hands on her. The more Jim thought of it, the more he suspected they were working together. If she was going around robbing collectors and stealing masterpieces, she needed someone who could move millions around. And she was working with both Gilzean and Zsasz. That wasn't suspicious _at all._ It was a tidbit of information he'd have to pass to MCU.

He called Harvey, who had been trying to track down Gilzean.

«Hey, any luck?» they asked in one voice as soon as Bullock picked up.

Then there was a silence as they tried to figure out who should talk first.

«None on my side», Jim said. «I went to Cobblepot, he 'doesn't know', so I waited to see if he called Zsasz in, so I could tail h-»

«You _what_?»

«I figured he could possibly be tailed to Barbara's hideout. What else do we _have_?»

«Don't go and follow the homicidal maniac! Christ. What the hell were you thinking?»

«That there was a slim possibility that Penguin would send him to murder her.»

«Which would save us all a _lot_ of trouble. Leave the hitman alone. Let me track Butch down.»

«Any luck on your side?»

«Nooooooo!» came a girl's voice in the background.

«Is that Selina?» Jim said.

«Yeah», Harvey mumbled. «The brat dropped on me when I stopped for food and _demanded_ a hot-dog.»

His version of the events obviously did not agree with Kyle's.

«I didn't _demand_ , I said I help you track the guy down but that it didn't come for free!»

«Anyway, I have nothing yet», Bullock explained. «Usually, I'd go to the club, he spent ten years with his ass glued to a barstool there, but of course when you need him, he's nowhere near the place.»

«Just call me if you hear something and I'll join you.»

«Yeah. Is someone still watching Penguin's place? I know the cap' sent men, but I don't see the little freak allowing them to hang around.»

Sent men was an understatement. Sarah had dispatched a few teams, Carlos a few others, and a great many cops had taken it upon themselves to start looking for Barbara on their own time. People liked Essen. With Maroni dead and Falcone retired, no one cared about her arresting Flass anymore. Her kids were cute. And she was a _cop_. A good part of the GCPD was closing ranks around her.

«I've be keeping in touch with Alvarez», Jim said. «Sarah went home, he has been handling everything. From what he tells me, one of the teams has been nicely asked to leave, and the others can't get close. Cobblepot has half an army patrolling around the place.»

«Makes sense, he's waiting for Maroni to hit back.»

The blond sighed. Right. Penguin had tried his best to start a new gang war. He had nearly forgotten about that.

«Anyway, they saw cars going in and out, but they're posted too far to see whose, let alone to check the license plates. If they get more, I'll let you know.»

«BUY YOUR OWN FRIGGING FRIES, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!» his partner screamed into his ear. Jim nearly dropped his phone. «Sorry. Damnit. Yeah, let me know. I'll call you later anyway.»

«Don't kill the girl, Harv'!»

«Don't tempt me», his friend replied, hanging up.

Jim took a deep breath and spent five minutes looking at his phone, too exhausted to even try to get out of the car. He was hanging on by a thread. He kept pulling at that thread, hauling himself up, dragging himself forward, and he wasn't sure he knew why. Debra Paxton, thirty-two, mother to a boy of nine. And how many more? She had been an afterthought, like everyone else he had screwed over. Bruce. Selina. Leslie. Barbara. _Barbara_.

He hated her. He did. The monster she was, every word out of her mouth, the sick game with the lyrics - « _I didn_ _'t think what I told you mattered at all, it never did»_ \- but most of all he hated her because if he stopped, he would not be able to take the guilt. She was dead, and she was haunting him, but she was dead and it was his fault, and he would pay. At least he hoped she was dead. Maybe, somewhere underneath those thorns and splinters and shards of ice, there was something left of her, somehow. Jim knew how to drown fear in fury, how to cover pain with rage, how to build walls so strong no one could see your weaknesses, not even you. It was a good armor, one you didn't want to let go of.

 _Of course, she_ _'s there underneath. It's too personal not to be._

He had come to the point where he could only summon anger in short bursts, where his mental walls were falling to pieces. He was _feeling_ again, and he hated it. It was much easier to feel only when he allowed himself to. You busied yourself, you held your mother's hand, you woke up early in the morning for PE and drills and patrol and then you ran through battlefields and over corpses and you held some friend's hand while he was bleeding out, only to realize that he couldn't feel it because his arm was severed at the elbow but you didn't allow yourself to break because you knew about blood and lethal injuries and your mother had dragged you to therapy for six years and it hadn't helped as much as just shutting it out, so you did and it worked for everything, be it war or your father's burial where the casket had been closed, absolutely closed, and then the horrors of Gotham that would punch you in the gut and made you slip a bit, a bit, and a bit more, but you just _pushed it down_ and didn't talk about it « _so please stop asking questions, Barb_ _'»_ , and you put one foot in front of the other and tried to do good, but it only worked up to a point. The point where he could only summon so little anger he felt like curling up into a ball and sleeping most of the time, and - every now and then - weeping.

Scottie had recommended trauma counseling. «Leslie. You. Together. Separately. Counseling. GO». Lee was already going. Jim didn't see the point. It had not helped after his father's death. It wouldn't help now.

He forced himself to get out of the car, then forced himself to start walking. He straightened his spine. He squared his jaw. Then he walked to Leslie's building and patted himself to find his key. An old woman walked up to him, looking confused and lost. She had to be in her nineties, with sparse violet-gray hair, a silk scarf over her shoulders, and an old-fashioned coat with a houndstooth pattern.

«Excuse me, young man. Could you please help me? I-I believe I'm lost.»

«Of course, ma'am. What seems to be the problem?», Jim replied, habit kicking in.

«I am looking for Stillwell Street. I'm trying to get to my grandson's, but I think I got lost. I had to take the bus, see. I used to have a license, but they took it away. Bad eyesight, they said. So here I am, taking the bus, and I think I got the stop wrong.»

The cop thought about it. Stillwell street was two blocks - and one bus stop - away. It wasn't a long walk, but it was Gotham city, and the woman appeared a bit more than just physically lost.

«It's not far. I can show you the bus that goes that way. I'll wait for it with with you.»

«Don't be nonsensical! Do I look like an infirm? Just point me at the direction, and I-I'll go. I can walk just fine! Young people nowadays. Always relying on motors. Fresh air would do you good. You are very pale.»

«Then maybe I could accompany you?» he offered, worried. «You are right. Stillwell street is not _that_ far. I believe you got out of your bus one stop too early.»

The old woman stared at him.

«Bus? I took no bus! I just walked out to buy bread. I don't know what nonsense you're inventing now, Jonathan, but I'll be heading home! I have no time for silliness.»

It was Jim's turn to stare, and pale.

«Mrs», he said, getting his badge out. «I'm detective Gordon, from the GCPD. Can you please-»

She walked away from him, quite swiftly for her age.

«I said 'no time for nonsense', boy, and you're too old for toys.»

He hurried after her.

«What is your name, Mrs.? Can you please give me your address?»

«I'm Grandmother to you, young boy, and you know full well where I live.»

«Stillwell street?» Jim hazarded.

If she was confusing him with her grandson, maybe he was living in her own house.

«Of course, Stillwell street. Your mother was born there, you little rascal. You should know full well.»

Jim sighed and followed her. It wasn't such a long walk, and her pace was energetic. If he was lucky, her family was actually living in the house she was trying to get to, and her grandson would be able to take care of her.

«What's your name, Mrs?» he insisted.

«Adora. Adora Valentine. And who are you?» she replied, only vaguely curious, with no recollection of having mistaken him for 'Jonathan'.

«Detective Gordon, Mrs. From the GCPD.»

«You look like a dependable man. Well dressed. My daughter would like you.»

«I, uh, I'm very flattered, Mrs. Valentine», he replied.

«So, what does a detective do, exactly?»

«Well, Mrs., I'd say it depends of the case…»

He gave her a heavily romanticized version of his daily activities, and she led him to a little house at the back of a derelict property. It had been cozy, once upon a time, but it looked like it hadn't been renovated since the early twenties. Jim thought it was abandoned for a moment, then Mrs. Valentine got the key out of her purse and opened the door.

«Please come right in», she invited. «I'll make us some tea.»

He nodded, hoping he would find her grandson inside, or at least some other member of her family. If not, he would call the precinct. He walked in, stopping in the hallway, and caught a faint motion behind his back. He whirled just in time to see the man who had been hiding behind the door slam it. Then Mrs. Valentine tased him.

###

Barbara let herself be escorted back to her loft, weeping all the way through like some _herself_ in Falcone's hands. She curled up on the sofa as Cobblepot's men - Gabe, and a tall blond in the mandatory gray suit - discussed her state.

«Think she learned her lesson?» the fat ass asked.

«Sure looks like it. Heh, she's lucky, the boss went soft on her. He's not always that forgiving», the blond remarked as they left.

«Take care of yourself, Miss Kean», Gabe advised her as they walked out the door.

He studied her face. She started wailing and curled up some more, until the door closed. Then she jumped up and slowly wiped her face against her shoulder and arm, leaving a trail of makeup over her skin and clothes. She rubbed the foundation and concealer away from her face with both hands, the pain of her bruises a welcome sting.

«I mean that I'm granting you a refund», the little creep had told her. _Refund._ She would give him a _refund_. «Here's what will be happening. You are going to go on your merry way, stealing artwork, selling it, sharing the profits, and then I might consent to let your companion live.»

She walked to the bedroom and stripped, throwing her fancy clothes away.

 _If you sit around and let them get on top, you might as well be saying you think that it_ _'s OK.*_

Her junkie outfit had worked just fine when she had stalked Jim - the Cardinals hoodie, the old jeans, the extremely expensive and comfortable sneakers she had covered in dirt. So she put them on and went to the bathroom to clean her face - not too much - and took a step back and looked at herself in the mirror. Bruised, battered, broke and broken.

 _And THAT_ _'S NOT RIGHT.*_

She went for her knives and hid them, in her pockets, in her sleeve, against her calf, _elsewhere_.

«And if that's not _right,_ you have to put it _RIGHT_ »*, she growled, slamming the bathroom's door as she got out.

How convenient that everything had already been put into words by someone else. She found it really validated her feelings.

She walked to the window and looked down to the street. As she suspected, there was a car waiting for her, and a man was watching both the building's door and its fire escape.

People thought she was fragile and helpless but _no longer_. «I've known _parents_ », Butch had said. «Out of the house for several hours a week». But that had been the singing. Good little girls also played the piano and the violin. And they danced. And they took gymnastics classes.

 _All escapes_ _…_

«… Start with the click of a lock»*, she whispered as she opened the balcony door and ran to the fire escape.

Several stories underneath, Cobblepot's thug looked up and waited for her to climb down. She was not going down. There were no steps up - _A storm can begin with the flap of a wing_.* - so she jumped from the stairs - five seconds of free fall - to grab the ledge of the closest balcony, on the adjacent building, and heaved herself up. Sure, it had been a few years since she had last swung from uneven bars, but she did yoga. And she jogged. And she lifted weights. And she put herself through hundreds of push-ups a week so she would be thin and pretty for her handsome boyfriend (who had left anyway, but who cared?), and then some.

All in one, climbing up was easy. The steps of _this_ building's fire escape led to the roof, and from there she could go anywhere. People thought she was too dumb to learn. Well, she was blonde. She was pretty. Of course they did. She could listen and watch just fine and Selina thought she was the only person who could climb. Once upon a time, Barbara had been afraid of heights, so she could not have followed, that was all. _No longer._

«Just because you think that life's not fair…» she recited as she raced across the roof, «it doesn't doesn't mean you have to grin and bear it…»*

The song got her through a few blocks, as she kept mixing the lyrics up. She ended up slipping into an upscale flat, a few streets away from the loft. Of course, a woman _had_ to be present, and _had_ to scream when Barbara walked into her living room, so the blonde stabbed her in the belly and slit her throat. _Sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty*._ Then she stole the idiot's phone and called Willy. She gave him very clear instructions (he wasn't big on understanding the underlying meanings of a conversation, so clarity was in order). She found her victim's car keys, her wallet, and matches. An hour later, the building was burning down and Barb' was getting out of the woman's Audi, in some industrial complex downtown. She met with Willy and three dozen hirelings in the basement of an abandoned lamp factory.

She explained the plan. She got protests.

«It's suicide», one of the thugs pointed out.

«Of course it's suicide», she retorted. «That's why I'm giving you all a two hundred grands incentive if you survive. And it's not _that_ complicated, really. Raid the place. Kill _everyone_. Spare the women. Now… The first one to the weapons crate gets the rocket launcher.»

 _###_


	30. Chapter 30

Note: this story is complete on AO3

* * *

Jim woke in the back of a van, with his wrist, knees and ankles wrapped in duct tape, mouth taped shut. He tasted blood. He had done his best to fight, even after being tased, and his abductor had been forced to punch back. Jim had not done much damage. He had not been in a state to.

The van was moving - slowly, as far as he could tell - but there were no windows, so there was no way to see where they were nor where they were going. He couldn't even look at the seats: a steel divider had been summarily welded between the back and the front of the van, only leaving a small opening to allow the use of the rear view mirror.

He could hear voices, though: the inane, constant chatter of Mrs. Valentine, and the occasional terse answer from her so-called "grandson". The rumbling of the motor and the noise of the road made it hard to understand what they were saying. As for the sounds he heard… No city traffic, no honking, no music, just the asphalt under the wheels, and the regular _whoosh_ of street lamps. They had left town. Jim couldn't see his watch. He couldn't tell how long the trip had been nor guess how far from Gotham they were. He kept listening, trying to get any hint of their location. The van turned on a dirt road, going slower, shaking as it rolled over rocks and holes. It stopped a few minutes later.

"Get him inside, Nate, dear", Mrs. Valentine said. "I'll see if Sophie managed to calm the poor girl down."

Jim listened to her footsteps as she walked away, then the doors opened and "Jonathan" entered the van. He shut the doors behind him. The cop thrashed. His abductor just stepped over him and dropped a duffel bag next to them. He peeled the tape that covered Jim's mouth away.

"You son of a bitch", the detective hissed.

Jonathan unzipped the bag.

"Shut up", he muttered, giving Jim a hollow look. "She'll be in the control room soon enough. You _listen to Sophie_. She's a bitch but she will keep you alive."

There was a beep from the bag, and the man rummaged through it. He pulled something black out of it, a sort of metallic chain covered in dark cloth, with plastic parts where -

Jim recognized an explosive necklace and tried to roll away, trying his best to kick Jonathan despite his bound legs. He did manage to push the doors open and rolled out of the van, dropping onto a paved ground. His abductor swore and pushed him down, forcing the necklace on. The device locked with a click. Then, the kidnapper released Jim.

"Don't run. Get out of the control room's range and it will blow", he said.

"If you think for a second-"

Jim went silent when he saw the man's expression, the emptiness of it, the absolute resignation. He was not wearing a necklace, but his throat was chaffed and scarred. So he was a prisoner too, just restrained in some other, less blatant way.

"What now?" the cop asked.

Jonathan's face twitched, then he smiled, going from bland and exhausted to handsome in the span of a blink.

"I'm so glad you decided to move in, James. You'll see, it's such a nice neighborhood, very quiet. You are renting number one, aren't you? I'll show you around."

The detective stared at him. His theories about Delores Stephenson and Sabrina Bakerton had never included 'moving in' and having 'neighbors'. To be fair, they had not included old ladies faking dementia either.

Jonathan pushed him away from the van. Jim finally saw the house - the manor - and recognized the place immediately. He knew it. Everybody knew it. Just like Wayne Manor, it had been looming over Gotham City for centuries. It was the old Crowne family home, which meant Adora Valentine had to be Margaret Crowne, grandmother of tech magnate Robert Crowne and retired CEO of Crowne Industries.

That explained quite a few things.

###

Things tended to get a little bit gory when military grade weaponry was involved. Oswald's side had machine guns, shotguns, and pistols. Barbara's side had about the same arsenal - except for the machine guns, as they were apparently less portable - and then she had the rocket launcher. She liked the thing. It made a glorious mess.

«You did good, Willy», she said as she hopped over the splattered remains of two of Cobblepot's guards. «I believe this will get the point across quite nicely.»

They had control of the mansion, though they had lost fifteen men. The survivors would get three hundred thousand dollars instead of two, because having a reputation of generosity was very important when you wanted to keep using men as cannon fodder. Hiring was always more difficult when you were stingy. Which meant Ozzie had better be ready to offer _magnificent_ wages, because forty of his men needed to be replaced.

Barbara made her way to the mansion. They didn't have much time left. They had waited for Penguin to leave the house for a trip to the club before attacking, but it was not impossible that he had been warned of the assault. So her team needed to grab the hostages and leave quickly.

She walked into the mansion, chuckling as her sneakers squeaked against the blood covered marble tiles.

«Gotta say, boss, that's a hell of a point you made, alright», Willy commented, trying to tiptoe around the blood and corpses. «Though it's hardly my business to say, I think you could have bought Gilzean back for half what you spent on us guys. Not to mention, you know, there wouldn't have been a price on your head.»

«You think?»

The thug looked into the closest room, grimaced, and moved away from the door.

«Yeah. So, huh, why the big show of force?»

 _They all deserve to die.*_

«They all deserved to die.»

Willy looked at her as if he thought she was insane and hoped she wouldn't read his mind.

«They all deserved to die», Barbara repeated, shrugging. She mumbled the next line. «Tell you why, Mister Willy, tell you why. Because in _all_ of the whole human race, Mister Willy, there are two kinds of men and only two…»*

She made her way to the living room as pathetic-replacement-for-Butch hurried after her.

«What kind of men, boss?»

She walked into the room, still looking at Willy, and paying no mind to the terrified weeping coming from the sofa, where Mrs. Kabelput and Ozzie's little guest were cowering.

«There's the one staying put in his proper place and the one with his _foot_ in the other one's _face_ »*, she explained, kicking the closed one corpse in the head.

Her shoes squeaked again.

Miriam's bodyguard had not really wanted to fight to the death. He had been shot in the back as he was running to the window, or so Barbara had been told.

Gertrude wailed. Miriam, who was curled up against the old woman, shrieked.

«Oh, _get over yourselves_ », Barbara snapped. «We're not going to hurt you?»

«Why would you do this?» the crazy old coot whined, with that insufferable accent of hers. «Why would you be so cruel?»

Barb' took a deep breath and donned her best commercial smile. The gallery one. The « _I_ _'m going to be very patient with your uneducated, uninformed, and downright mentally deficient ass»_ one.

«Why. That's a good question. One I'm not so sure you want the answer to, seeing as you obviously never cared about the problem at all.»

«W-what do you mean?»

«I _mean_ if you had paid attention, we wouldn't be here at all. You would have opened your eyes when little Ozzie started torturing cats - which I'm sure he did - and slapped sense into his mind, and that would have been the end of it. But no. No. Oswald was 'such a good boy'.»

She saw the doubt in Gertrude's eyes, even if she immediately defended her son.

«He's not like that. He's never been like that!»

«Oswald is _nice_!» Miriam added, but then again she would think so. Her bedroom was filled with bones.

«Oswald is niiiice», Barbara mimicked, rolling her eyes. «I can't be the first person to point out he's not right in the mind, and I believe you _know that_ , Mrs. Kabelput. Now, on the ' _why_ ' I'm being so cruel… Oswald took it upon himself to have my right hand abducted, and delivered to his BFF Victor Zsasz the _serial killer,_ so the freak could have fun torturing him in his basement. All of that so _I_ would obey him. WELL, GOOD LUCK WITH THAT. So now, now, I have to kidnap the two of you and trade you for my friend. It's not my fault, _is it?_ HE STARTED IT, DIDN'T HE?»

Gertrude's world came crashing - just like dear Mother's - and she didn't try to defend her boy anymore. Something mean flickered in Miriam's eyes, and she looked from Gertrude to Barbara, frowning.

Willy was called out by a teammate, which distracted everyone. He left for a few moments, and came back nervous.

«Hey, boss, one of Penguin's men is alive», he announced. «He was hiding in a panic room. He says he has important information.»

Note: This story is complete on AO3.

* * *

Barbara raised her eyebrows.

«Why is he under the impression that I care about information? Do I strike you as a criminal mastermind? Because I'm not aiming for criminal mastermind.»

«Uh, I dunno, boss. He's upstairs.»

The blonde rolled her eyes.

«Very well. Take the girls away, I'll join you at the factory», she said, leaving the room.

Finding Penguin's man was not too difficult, you just had to follow the sound of mockery and punches. She walked into Ozzie's office - which was suddenly adorned with one less painting and one more concealed door - and shot the ceiling to get everyone's attention. Her men moved away from their captive. It was Gabe.

«Heeeey! Gabe! Isn't that a surprise!» she exclaimed, shooting in his direction.

He threw himself to the floor. So did several of her hirelings.

Hirelings had such a nice sound to it.

«No, no, please, don't kill me!» the henchman begged. «I work for Maroni, I work for Maroni!»

Barbara blinked. That was mildly surprising, coming from Oswald's favorite pet.

«Wait. Maroni, Maroni, crime lady Giulia?»

«Yeah, yeah, Giulia. I used to work for one of Salvatore's guys, Frankie. Except Frankie was a cheap asshole so I sort of quit and started working for Cobblepot instead. Pay was better, and alimony doesn't pay itself, you know?»

«You're aware you're making the exact opposite point of what you were going for, right?»

He held his hands up in the air.

«She called me like three weeks ago, said we used to have a nice business relationship and she could use a reliable man, and also that Oswald was kind of a cunt, so, heh, I figured 'better pay', 'job security', 'less likely to be stabbed'. I was just collecting intel on Zsasz before getting my ass out of here, I swear.»

«Giulia Maroni», Barbara repeated, because she had absolutely no interest in the rest of the story.

«Yeah.»

«Well, then, I hope you have an excellent memory, because you're going to have to pass a _lot_ of messages.»


End file.
